


From Her Own Ashes She Rises

by Scarmander



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragons, F/M, Fire and Blood, Fix-It, Not a romance-centered story, Post-Canon Fix-It, Resurrection, We're burning some bitches down, but like tastefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarmander/pseuds/Scarmander
Summary: Daenerys Stormborn of house Targaryen had died. And then she had lived. The Lord of Light had brought her back, and she would fulfill her destiny.Or basically, it's payback time, bitches, and we're taking down Westeros. Fire and Blood!





	1. The Spark

She thought herself dead… or alive. Or asleep. She didn’t quite know. Had there ever been any difference between the three? Everything was dark, in the end. Just nothingness. She didn’t try to open her eyes, for she knew she had nothing to see. 

It didn’t hurt anymore, that much she knew. There were things she knew, somehow, and things that had ceased to make sense, as if she had never known them before. She knew she’d been killed, for example, but she did not remember why or how. Not that it mattered. Not that the why or the how mattered anymore. Only the pain had mattered then. Only the memory of it mattered now.

The pain had been swift, sharp and cold. She’d never felt something like this before. She remembered pain. Her body had felt it before. A thousand different times, a thousand different ways. This one had been new and foreign to her body.

She could feel it lodged between her ribs, the strange foreign object in her body. It did not belong here. She dared not name it, as if the thought of a name would make it hurt once more. It was so small, so ridiculously small and colder than anything she had ever known. She was certain that it was made of ice and not iron. It had to be.

She had only ever known fire. Her body remembered burning aflame, it knew the heat and cherished it. Fire was a part of her. And there she was, ice sheathed in her flesh. The cold had spread to her entire body, extinguishing the heat, leaving nothing but emptiness in its trail. It didn’t feel right.

There had always been so much noise before, so much to see and hear. So much to feel. But not here. Not in nothingness. She wasn’t afraid, not anymore. There was nothing to fear, here. There was nothing to feel, here.

She had spent her entire life being terrified of death, she had run from it every day. Fate had chased her along for over two decades, reminding her of its wishes for her every step of the way. She had run for so long, had been afraid for so long, that she could not even remember why she had been so afraid.

There was nothing to fear, here. Was she dead? Was this what the afterlife was supposed to be? In her dreams, she had been reunited with her family. She had had a family. Only shadows of it remained to her now. Was this death? Was this all there was to it? Cold and empty and alone? It didn’t feel right. It didn’t make sense.

She craved the heat, yearned for it. She wanted to start a fire in her body, to get rid of the cold and ridiculous thing that had claimed her life. How could something so insignificant end her life? 

She needed fire. And there was none of it left in her body. It wasn’t right. Everything was wrong. She didn’t feel nothing anymore, she felt angry. There was something missing from her.

She was fire-made flesh. She knew it, her body had never felt cold before. It had never been cold. This cold had no place in her body. It didn’t belong here. This was her body, after all. It was hers. And she wanted to cold gone.

She stayed like this for a minute or an eternity, growing more and more impatient and frustrated with every thought.

This was the new way she counted time. Her flow of thoughts a new calendar. 

She used to see time pass through the sun’s journey. She remembered that. From East to West. Always.

‘When the sun rises in the West…’ A shadow whispered in her ear. And there it came to her. A roar.

Drogon. 

A name, she had a name to remember.

She didn’t feel him, although she knew she ought to, but she remembered his name. The first name that had come back to her. Drogon. Drogon was a part of her as much as she was a part of him. She knew that. She had him. Her son. Her late husband’s name too, somehow. Drogon. She had her son. 

Her frustration faded away as something new came alive inside her. Hope, there was hope. At last. And wherever hope lives, a spark shall always fly to ignite the world.

And as soon as that first spark had shone in the darkness that surrounded her, the world became ablaze. A thousand sparks now flying everywhere, she could see them dance in the darkness. She was laying in a pyre, she thought. Or maybe she was the pyre. Maybe she was the fire.

She did not know whether the fire was of her own volition or if she just happened to live in it. But the world was shining bright now, she felt as if she were lying in the center of the sun.

And right there and then it all came back to her. Hope, yes, but not only. Warmth. Life. It had all come back to her. And it was spreading quickly.

The ice was gone. The blade was gone. She realized it now. She could name it now, it couldn’t harm her anymore.

Light and life and warmth. She was safe. She was in the fire. She was the fire.

And she rose from her own ashes, burning bright.

She was alive, gasping and wide-eyed. Smoke obscuring her sight and her senses, the heady smell of life and death. The rumble of crackling wood and magic tingling in her ears. She was alive. She was afire, and so was the bed of wooden sticks she had been lain on. 

She heard voices before she could see faces. 

“Mhysa!”  
“Khaleesi!”  
“My Queen!”  
“Queen Daenerys!”

Names, all of them. None of them familiar. Who were they calling for? Who were they? The voices continued to call out names, louder and louder, as though calling for attention, though it did not seem to her that they were anxious. They were excited, exhilarated. They were alive.

Were they calling out for her? She wanted to call back to them but did not know their names. She didn’t even see their faces through the thickness of the fire and the smoke that surrounded her.

One of her hands clutching at her chest, her fingers pressing against the dry wound that lay there, and the other holding onto the pile of wood beneath her, she rose.


	2. The Bolt and the Raven

* * *

 

**Chapter 2: The Bolt and the Raven**

 

“Where are you?” she called to the people, trying to get a glimpse of them, her voice barely loud enough for her own ears. “Who are you?” she tried again, louder. Bolder.

 

“Daenerys Stormborn!” a woman’s voice answered from the darkness that lay beyond the flames. Was that her name? The voices had called out that name already. “My name is Kinvara. You have to come to us.”

 

Now that she was sitting up, the world felt much bigger than she remembered it being.

 

It was night, which made it hard to see beyond the flames. She didn’t want to leave them, for fear of being cold again. The fire was reassuring, it was a constant, a promise.

 

If she left the pyre, the world would open itself to her. If she left the pyre, other people could get near her. It was a scary thought. She did not know where she was. She did not know who was there with her. She would be all alone with strangers who called her names she did not recognize as her own. She did not really know who she was herself.

 

Daenerys Stormborn, the woman had called her. Daenerys, the name resonated in her head... She’d heard it before. Was it really her? A peculiar name. Oddly fitting, somehow, for she did think herself quite peculiar, in a way. What kind of woman was she? What kind of woman stays on a pyre and doesn’t burn? There she was, then, Daenerys Stormborn… But there was no storm here, only fire. She was Fireborn.

 

The woman called for her again. Daenerys didn’t answer. It wasn’t right yet. She couldn’t leave the fire yet.

 

She would come to them. She simply needed to do something beforehand.

 

“Drogon!” she cried out the name hoarsely, the only name that mattered anymore. Her own was a fallacy, a trick, a lie. Her name didn’t matter. Drogon was the name that had come to her. This was the name that had brought her out of the cold emptiness. The only name she remembered. Her throat was tight and dry, her tongue raw and harsh. But she tried again anyway, with a broken war cry, she screamed his name again, louder than before. Somewhere far above, the sky rumbled, as if the world had awoken at the same time as she did. As if she’d awoken a sleeping monster.

 

Twisting her hips around, her legs now hanging off the ledge, she paused for a second. He was coming back to her. She could feel him, getting nearer. It was thrilling, terrifying and incredible. His might was hers and she was his. Quietly inhaling the soothing sent of the woody ashes and soot, she closed her eyes. Waiting for the perfect moment. And there it came. Daenerys Fireborn stood down the fiery pedestal that had seen her rebirth. Her bare feet hitting the damp, warm sand below. She glanced down at it, and realized she was naked as a newborn when the night got split apart by the brightest lightening bolt the world had ever seen. She startled, nearly falling down in the process as she heard several voices scream in fear. The light had left as quickly as it had come, and she was blinking away the brightness, unsure as to what had just happened.

 

And then a roar that tore the sky apart and shook the ground. In the split second after the flash of light and sound, a heavy, winged shadow landed near her, sending sparks from the pyre flying around the both of them. Drogon was here. His dark skin glowing red with the embers. His warm eyes set on her. He was so close it ought to have frightened her. It didn’t. The storm had started. The wind was blowing. The skies kept rumbling. And somewhere, another bolt of light struck the earth. There was nothing to fear now.

 

Drogon was here, there was no need to fear anymore. She was safe. He was her child. She remembered hatching him, now. In another pyre, in another life. He was with her, he had always been.

 

She rose her weak, trembling hand to him, softly, as though he were but a mere trick of her mind ready to evaporate in an instant, and felt the heat of his breath tickle her knuckles.

 

He nuzzled her, lowered his head toward hers until her forehead touched his leathery snout. He whimpered softly and she let out a watery sigh. Her child. Her last child.

 

She thanked him in silence. For being here, for being alive. Her child was here with her. The tears spilled freely from her eyes. They stayed like this for a moment as he purred against her and she tried to control her tears.

 

The people she had heard before hadn’t said anything in a while, and it worried her. Had they been there at all? Was she all alone with Drogon?

 

She turned around reluctantly, the lack of warmth against her skull making her feel incredibly lonely. She had already half-resigned herself to the feeling when she realized that she was facing a small crowd of twenty or so people gathered in front of her by the seaside. There were at least fifteen women and four men, all bent, all on their knees, all looking at her with an air of devotion that shook her to the core. And she knew none of them by face.

 

“Queen Daenerys,” one of the women spoke out, standing up and taking a step forward. The same one from before, judging by the voice. She wore a long red gown made of silk, which swung against the wind with every step she took. It seemed to her that the woman’s long hair trailed behind her like a dark flag in a storm. She was mythical. There was something in her eyes, in her posture. She couldn’t stop looking at her, trying to find a purpose, a meaning in her presence.

 

“The Lord of Light brought you back to us. It is my honor to serve you, Azor Ahai. You shall lead us all against the darkness. I have seen it,” the woman told her.

 

Daenerys, for that was now what she thought she ought to call herself, did not know what to answer. The woman seemed to know her, seemed to know about things that she herself didn’t.

 

The woman, Kinvara as she had called herself, came closer, and Daenerys noticed a glowing red stone shining on her throat.

 

She’d seen one of those before. On a stony island.

 

“Where am I?”

“The free city of Volantis. You’ve had quite the journey. Your dragon made sure to bring you to me as soon as possible.”

“Why you? Do I know you?” she dared to ask the woman.

“I fear that you do not. But I know you. I have seen your fate in the flames. I knew of it long ago. I was waiting for the right time. I had warned the Spider, you see, and his fate came true. You saw to it. The Lord of Light has chosen you. Let me help you. Come with me, we will bring you to the Red Temple.”

 

The woman took her hand in hers, guiding her away from the fire and into the darkness once more. The storm was raging, the wind blowing against her naked skin, and the single step she took nearly brought her to her knees.

 

She was tired and colder now that she was away from the fire. She let go of the woman’s hands. She was about to take a step backwards when one of the men came running up to her, and Drogon growled lowly. A warning sign. The woman in red retreated, letting him through. She could feel the dragon’s heat behind her, he had moved towards her. The bearded man stopped dead in his tracks, a few feet away from her. She did not recognize him, although she felt she ought to.

 

But the man meant no harm, and the dragon knew it. He looked at her with wonder and a sadness that reminded her of her own. He came to her and put both of his hands on her cheeks, his thumb stroking her gently, staring her right in the eyes.

 

“You’re alive… I can’t believe it. I saw your body. My Queen. I should have gone with you. I shouldn’t have let you leave without me.”

 

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t find the words. He was right, surely he was. But she did not want to remember why he was right. She didn’t want to know.

 

He slowly lowered his gaze to her naked chest, and she knew that she ought to feel shame for being seen in such a state, but she did not care. He was not leering at her, he was not looking at her flesh, or at her breasts. He was looking at her. He raised his eyes back to hers, pressing his forehead to hers as his fingers grazed through her hair.

 

“We will get our vengeance, I promise you. We will kill them all. I will kill the man who did this to you. I swear this on my life.”

 

He was positively shaking with rage as he told her this and yet his touch had not lost an ounce of its tenderness. He cradled her as if he were afraid she would fall to pieces if he left her.

 

She nodded in agreement, closing her eyes before he could see her cry, trying to step away from him. She waited for him to leave, but he wrapped his arms around her torso instead. She felt so small, so young, so lost. How had she ended up like this?

 

Daario, she remembered the name. Although it seemed to her that the man’s name didn’t matter. She knew him. She knew that she knew him. He loved her. That much was clear. He would keep her safe. Drogon would keep her safe. _She_ would keep herself safe.

 

“Now come, my Queen. Let’s get you dressed and let’s get you inside. Your people await you.”

 

 

* * *

 

**Jon**

 

 

She was a shadow, a whisper in the wind, the torment of his every move. He saw her every night. It had been moons now, not that time mattered anymore, and her smell and her smile still clung to the air like the snow did to him. He was trying to avoid thinking about her. He was trying to do anything but think of her. He’d left Castle Black with the wildlings. They were roaming free, and he’d thought that this would make him free too, free from the guilt. Ghost was happy here, hunting and growing freely. Tormund was happy here, with his people and his ale. But Jon hadn’t found what he’d been looking for. He’d evaded his own prison for this. Another forsaken oath. All for naught. How many more could he break? How many more could be broken?

 

Regicide. Queenslayer. Kinslayer. Murderer. Traitor. The litany of titles he’d earned himself that only she would whisper back to him every night. She knew him well. She knew what he had done. She knew what he deserved.

 

He was supposed to be at Castle Black, she reminded him of that every night. He was supposed to be standing by his Queen. He was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to love her until his dying breath. He still did, somehow. In his own twisted way. She was everywhere he went. It was hard not to. He lived in the realm of things he could have done, of things he should have done.

 

And here he was, having to live with all the things he didn’t do. And worst of all, the things he did do. He wallowed. Self-hatred was something to do. He sometimes carved his own name in the sticks they’d used in the fires, for one of the wildling elders had told him that this was the surest way to curse someone. He wanted to be cursed. He wanted to be dead. He wanted to world to forget he ever existed. He wanted his name erased from any pages of history.

 

He’d seen a woman wearing white furs a week before and his heart had faltered. She did not even look like her, with dark brown hair and dark eyes, no one could ever mistake her for…

 

The thought of the nickname stung him bitterly, his mouth turning sour. The Queen, that was what he’d settled upon calling her. Guilt wrecking havoc in the depths of his stomach at the thought of it. He was thankful for her unusual name, for everyone and everything was her, in a way but no name could remind him of her. The sound of her laugh rang in the night even when the skies were calm. Everyone and everything was a trick, a trap ready to ensnare him with the possibility of her. But not her name. He was safe from that. No one spoke it. No one knew it here. No one but him. And he cowered at the thought of it. Her name. All her titles. She had had so much power. And she still did. Even in her death she was relentless. There was no escaping her. Not here, not anywhere.

 

Penance. He was serving his time. Free only in appearance. Guilt was heavier than any shackles known to man.

 

There was no escaping her.

 

And so he ought to have known. He ought to have known when the raven came.

 

For the raven came and brought a name back to him.

 

‘ _Jon, I write to you in urgency. The realm is under threat. There is word that_ _Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen_ _was_ _risen from the dead_ _two moons ago_ _._ _The Iron Islands and Dorne_ _are in open rebellion and have joined her cause already._ _Talk of independence spreads across the kingdoms as we wait in fear._ _It_ _is said that her dragon has doubled in size and that her armies are_ _growing stronger by the day._ _She is somewhere in Essos, though no one knows where exactly._ _I am asking you for your help. Ride South as quickly as possible. King Bran will be expecting you._ _Your friend Samwell Tarly_ ’

 

And never had a name been capable of terrorizing him quite as much.

 

‘Ride South.’ Ride South? Why? What more could he do? Had he not done enough? Had he not killed her enough? What was he to do? Kill her again?

 

He would stay North and await her judgment. She was coming for him. He knew it. He had always known. There was no escaping her.

 

‘Go South, get warm,’ had once been his plan to get a better life. There was none of that left. There was no hope left. He wouldn’t ride South. He wouldn’t.

 

He would let her come to him. He would wait for her.

 

Daenerys Targaryen was coming for him, he was sure of it.


	3. The Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer! Since people seem to think it's an important topic, the ship tags listed above do not reflect a potential 'endgame' nor do they mean that either of these relationships will be the dominant topic of this story. This isn't a romance-centered story. The reason I put those ship tags in is because I did not want the people who didn't want to see the relationships that will be dealt with, in their own regard and in their due time, mentioned in a story. There are people who, after what happened in 8x06 are, with good reason, opposed to seeing Jonerys as a pairing. And there are people who just don't want to see Daario interracting with Daenerys. That's why the tags are here. To warn potential readers who might not want to read this at all. If that's your case, I completely understand, it's perfectly alright.
> 
> Now back to the story! Hope you enjoy the chapter! :)

**Chapter 3: The Room.**

 

 

When she woke up the next morning, the world seemed to make more sense than it did the previous night. She had not talked much last night. She had not wanted to. She had not found the right words, or any words to say. The priestesses, for that was what most of the women who had been there last night were, were very keen on asking her all sorts of questions about what she had seen. What death was like.

 

“Nothing. There was nothing to see. It was empty. Cold. And then a spark.”

“A spark?” one of them had pressed on. “What do you mean?”

“In the darkness, in the nothing. I wanted the cold to stop. And then a spark came. It must have been the pyre, the one I woke up into.” Daenerys paused for a second before turning to the one who was named Kinvara. “How did you do it? How did you save me?”

“I didn’t. The Lord of Light brought you back. I only asked him to do it. You’ll have to excuse us for cutting off some of your hair. It’s a part of the process.”

“I don’t mind,” Daenerys answered. She paused and sighed. “Your necklace, what is it? I’ve seen it before.”

“It’s a gift from R’hllor. It’s a symbol. It’s a reminder of who I am. Kinvara. Flame of Truth, Light of Wisdom and First Servant of the Lord of Light.”

 

She had nodded and had then remained silent, inhaling heavily and closing her eyelids for a second. She had seen a necklace like that somewhere. She just needed to remember.

 

They’d given her a simple red dress to wear, and the fabric was loose enough that she thought herself naked still. When everything was still and quiet, it was as if she was dead all over again.

 

She was awake now, tired still, but awake. Too worried to go back to sleep.

 

She was alive. Her body was scarred and weary, but her heart was beating steadily, she could hear its rhythm pulse against her rib cage, if she got quiet enough.

 

The man, Daario, had insisted on sleeping in her chambers. He had told her he did not want to let her out of his sight for a second. And that He had told her he would sleep on the ground if she would let him, she had told him not to be silly and that he could sleep at the bottom of the very large bed the priestesses had offered her. He was lightly snoring when she woke up. She did not mind it, the sound was a pleasant reminder that she was not alone. The room was as grand as any she could ever remember being in. The air was heavy and heady with the scent of incense and musky oils Kinvara had set fire to, and light came through curtained windows on the wall that sat opposite the bed she had barely slept on.

 

Her sleep had been full of dreams and memories, full of names and faces she did not want to recognize any longer.

 

From what she could remember, Daenerys had been murdered by the man she loved.

 

He had held her, he had kissed her. He had told her that she was his Queen, ‘now and always’. She remembered that now. She remembered the love she felt for him. And she remembered the pain. Swift, sharp and cold. Again and again. Her sleep had not been peaceful. She had turned and turned, and she knew that the man that was now sleeping soundly at the bottom of her bed had not slept through most of the night. He had not said a word to her, though, and for that she was grateful. She hadn’t wanted to talk about it. She had wanted to sleep.

 

But the man in her dreams had haunted her all night.

 

She remembered his face. She remembered his name. The memory of it echoing painfully in the hollow of her chest. Jon Snow. The thought made her hands crawl up her rib cage, to touch the proof of his betrayal.

 

She did not know why he had done it. She could not remember it. She remembered being in the ruins of a broken castle, she remembered the smell of ashes.

 

She remembered her brother, as well. Viserys. He had come to her in a dream. She had seen his face and his pale silver hair had reminded her of her own.

 

His voice had rung through the night as though he were in the room with her.

 

“ _You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?_ ”

 

His words had been a threat at the time, she knew that. He had meant to scare her into submission, he had meant to keep his grasp on her, to control her. And she had freed herself, she remembered that. She remembered the Dothraki, her husband, her growing belly. The words had been a threat at the time. Now… Now they meant hope. They meant vengeance. Daario had promised her that.

 

She did not know whether or not it was what she wanted yet.

 

She wanted to rest for a while. She wanted to remember who she was. She wanted her scars gone, her bruises erased. She wanted to know why she had died.

 

She sighed in frustration and propped herself up against the wooden bedpost behind her, her feet accidentally hitting against something in the process.

 

The man at the end of the bed stirred and when she looked at him, his eyes were staring at her.

 

“I’m sorry for waking you,” she told him, genuinely apologetic. She felt guilty for not letting him sleep all night.

“It’s alright,” he yawned with a sheepish smile.

 

She bit her lip, trying to muster up the courage to speak.

 

“What’s wrong?” He looked so tired, so worried.

“Do you know why I died?” she asked him.

“You were betrayed,” he answered her, his voice still low and deep with sleep.

“Jon Snow.”

“That’s the name I was told, yes.”

 

He looked fully awake now, anger flaring up his nostrils.

 

“He’s apparently being sent to the wall as we speak.”

“How long has it been?”

“What?”

“Since I died.”

“I’m not sure. I came as soon as I was called. The red priestesses sent for me, in Meereen. I heard a week ago.”

“Shouldn’t I be...” She couldn’t find the right words to use and gestured to her body instead. Rotten? Decayed? Filled with worms? Harsh words to use. He seemed to understand her anyway, because he sighed and sat up with a strange look on his face.

 

“Aye you should. The first I saw of you you were covered in oils and thick pastes. I wouldn’t have recognized you if it weren’t for your hair. You should ask the High Priestess that, she seems to know a lot more than she lets on. She said she had to wait for the right time, for the right night. She refused to tell me why, though. I wanted her to do it the minute I got here. She refused. I didn’t know whether to trust her or not, but I did know that if there ever was a woman who would rise from the dead it would be you. You’ve done the impossible before. It wasn’t hard to have faith.”

“Did I?” she questioned. She wanted to know what she had done. She wanted to know who she was.

“What?”

“Do the impossible?”

“Wouldn’t you say so? I don’t think there are that many people who can say they’ve brought dragons back, or that they can walk through fire and come out unscathed.”

 

She did not really remember doing the latter. The first one had been one of her first memories. Her first pyre, Drogon. Drogo. Rhaego. The list of names she could remember was getting longer and longer.

 

He’d mentioned _dragons_. She remembered there being three in the first pyre. Where were the other two, now?

 

“The dragons?” she asked.

“I’m sorry for what happened to them,” he told her. It didn’t answer her question.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you not know?” He paused for a second to look at her, moving closer to her in the process. “Daenerys, do you remember?”

“Not all of it. There are parts that are missing. Not all of them. I know you. I remember you. I know Drogon, Drogo.”

“Do you remember Jorah?”

“Jorah,” she whispered back. “Jorah is dead.” She remembered him. He was a painful memory. A pyre. A pile of bodies. Snow. She had been fighting, there had been a sword in her hands. She had been scared and running. She had run from death and had fought it alongside him. He had died defending her. He had died to protect her. And she had died anyway. How much time had passed between the two events? How much time had passed since she had died? She needed to know.

“Grey Worm is here. He wanted to see you last night, but the priestesses persuaded him to rest. He was on his way to Naath, said he wanted to protect Missandei’s people, but a priestess found him before he could land...”

 

His voice trailed off. Daenerys knew he was still talking, but she could not hear him anymore. Missandei. The name enraged her. The name brought it all back to her. Missandei of Naath. Her friend. Her companion. The sound of a blade cutting through the air. She was lost. She was gone.

 

“Missandei,” she breathed out. She felt like fainting, like vomiting. Her ears were ringing with a high-pitched note. The world was spinning, she was struggling to breathe properly.

 

“I- I can’t breathe.”

 

“My Queen?” he asked, his hand grasping hers.

 

“ _How about my Queen?”_

 

Air was missing from her lungs, she was suffocating, she was dying again. She was going to die again. She heard him call out her name, though the sound seemed to come from another moment, one forgotten by time and space. His voice was different. The word was different, too. Dany. He’d just called her Dany. The room was swaying, as if she were at sea. The scar on her chest was burning. Blinking blindly at the light and darkness that flickered past her eyelids, she only saw a torso mapped with deep cuts. Not her own, no. _“Thank you, Dany.”_

 

“What did you just say?”

 

She was panting, gasping, trying to get as much air back in, but none of it seemed to work. The voice still echoed through her brain. The nickname ringing sweetly, like a lover’s plea.

 

“I’ll go get a priestess. Don’t move.”

 

He let go of her hand. She felt the bed shift as he got up, and the sea swayed her again. She was on a boat. _“Alright, then, not Dany. How about my Queen?”_ The sudden surge of hope and love stabbed her right through the same cut in her chest. The surest way to reach one’s heart.

 

She was seeing flashes of white light pass by her eyes. And then a dark veil that came and went again. The ringing continued on and on in her ears. She felt her body heave with sickness and had the presence of mind to lean off of the bed to empty her stomach on the floor. She was going to die. The sounds of his voice and the faint ringing intensified with every deep, rugged breath she took and the darkness grew and grew until there was nothing left.

 

And then silence.

 

 

...

 

When she woke up again, she thought herself alone for a moment, since her bed was now empty and there was no sign of Daario anywhere. Was he still looking for help?  
  
But she heard the voices of two women speaking tensely nearby and knew that it meant that the priestesses were here.

 

“She’s going to be fine. She’s just overwhelmed. How many people do you know who have been through as much as she has?”

“None. But that’s the thing. Maybe she’s been through too much. Maybe she’s lost too much. Maybe we waited too long. Three weeks is a long time.”

“I did not wait too long. I waited for the right night. You saw the signs, same as me. You saw the lightning bolt. You saw the storm. You heard the voices in the pyre’s flames.”

“They were calling for her.”

“I know. Who do you think it was?”

“I don’t presume to know these things.”

“Well I’m telling you this, I am the Flame of Truth. And those were the voices of the dead. They were her people, guiding her back to us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. She is Azor Ahai, I have known it all along. R’hllor will do anything to guide her. Once she gains more power, so will he. So will _we_. She has a destiny to fulfill, and so do I. By her side. She just needs to rest. To eat. To take care of herself. We need to help her.”

 

They were coming closer now, and she wanted to pretend she was asleep but didn’t have it in her to do it. Once Kinvara and the other priestess, whom she did not know by name, had noticed she was awake, they came to her and started assaulting her with demands and questions.

 

“You need to eat. You need to drink.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I just got dizzy. I’m quite certain that’s a known symptom for anyone who’s ever been dead and has just been revived. Someone should ask a Maester their opinion on the matter.”

“Don’t be clever. You fainted, you were unconscious for a while. This is no laughing matter. The Lord of Light brought you back for a reason. You need to be careful.”

 

The priestess made her feel sheepish, like a little girl scorned by her mother. Daenerys sighed in agreement.

 

“R’hllor iderēptan ao naejot jemagon īlva isse se vīlībagon lēda se pirta Jaes, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Skoros Jaes?” What god? She wanted to know.

 

The High Valyrian surprised her, she had not thought about it, she did not realize she even spoke the language, and yet, it was her own. Her brother had taught her the words. ‘The Lord of Light has chosen you to lead us in the fight against the false god, Daenerys Targaryen.’ The priestess had told her.

 

“We will talk about this later, you need to rest now. We need you safe and sound. You’re our best hope.”

“I’m sorry. I just remembered too many things at once. I got overwhelmed. My memories have been… Troubling me. I’m starting to remember things that I didn’t remember yesterday. Things I wish I didn’t remember.”

“You need to be careful. And you need to eat. And drink water. A servant will bring you a platter soon. In the meantime, try to rest. Your Commander of War is right behind the door...”

“Who?” Daenerys interrupted her.

“The leader of the Unsullied, Grey Worm, he’s been here all day guarding you, as is the leader of the Second Sons. They were both very adamant on the fact that they would not leave this door unguarded. They both refuse to leave. They won’t even take turns.”

 

The thought made her chuckle. They were doing it again, like they’d done so years ago.

 

“Tell them to come in, on your way out. Tell them that the last one to guard the door will be free to serve a new Queen.”

 

 

**Tyrion**

 

 

He had been drinking his fill again, sitting quite comfortably on an armchair as he watched the spectacle in front of him. Two girls were stripping themselves naked for his own enjoyment, two girls kissing each other, but only for him to see. It made him feel good. It made him feel powerful again. They were doing what he wanted them to do. Inebriated both by the power of Dornish wine and gold, Tyrion thought himself quite content again for an hour or two.

 

Until the girls left him alone in the room and he was left looking at the cracked ceiling of one of Bronn’s new brothels. The brothel had just opened two weeks ago, and he had not left this room since then. The King had sent Ser Podrick to look for him three times, but Tyrion had managed to clerverly manipulate the former squire into staying for a while each and every time. But Podrick had always left soon enough, and Tyrion had been left alone with his exhausting thoughts and needs. Bronn had left five nights ago for the Reach. Tyrion had never been quite so alone as he was now. Not even when he had been imprisoned, years ago, after Joffrey's death. He had had hatred and vengeance to keep him company, then. He had had his sister to hate. He had had a purpose.

 

The things he had done to get here. The things he had seen to get here. In this fucking room, all alone. He regretted some of them, but could not bring himself to regret them all.

 

His former Queen was dead, and for that he was glad. His two siblings were dead, his entire family annihilated. He was the last Lannister. The last true Lannister. Not one of those pesky, penniless cousins. No. The last heir, if only his father could see him now. He would have to pay a visit to his own castle soon, Casterly Rock was now his to manage. But he did not want to leave this room. He did not want to leave his wine and whores behind, for fear of being left completely alone.

 

He was finishing his tenth, or eleventh… or twelfth – who was counting anyway? – cup of the night when someone banged loudly on the door.

 

“What is it?” he yelled at the noise and waited for an answer. When none came, he yelled again. “Come in or leave, I don’t have time for this!”

 

The door opened and Ser Podrick and Ser Davos walked in, both looking paler than a great many dead men he’d seen walking around two moons ago.

 

“You need to get dressed. You need to get dressed right now. Something has happened. The King has sent for you, we’re not leaving without you, that was the order,” Ser Davos told him quite animatedly.

“Surely, it can wait a little. I have this fantastic jug of wine I’m quite set on finishing, if you don’t mind.”

 

He offered his own cup to the old man, but Ser Podrick, who did not seem to have neither the patience nor the inclination to let him live in drunken peace, stepped in and took his cup away to put it down on the desk nearby. The young man pulled him by the sleeve of his undershirt and rose him to his feet.

 

“You don’t get it. We need to go _now_. She’s alive.”

“Who?”

“The… The Queen. The Targaryen Queen.”

 

Tyrion laughed heartily.

 

“Oh that’s a very good one,” he said once his laughter had subdued. “Have you come all this way to tell me jokes? Because I do know quite a lot of them. Have I told you about the one about the rabbit and the...”

“He’s not joking. I wish he was,” Ser Davos told him with a glare.

“Get dressed.” Tyrion felt a slap across his face as Podrick threw a shirt at him.

“What do you mean, she’s alive? She’s dead. The honorable fool killed her. I told him to do it and he did. That’s me, I did that. That reminds me… I’ll have to ask the Tarly boy to put that in that book of his, I saved you all. I want to be known as the man who saved you all.”

“Yes well, get dressed, and save us once more, won’t you?”

 

Tyrion was hit with the feeling of his pair of shoes pushed into his chest.

 

“Get dressed. Now. We don’t have time.”

“Alright, alright, I yield. You’ve grown a lot more antagonistic in the moon and a half we’ve been here. Is your family name rubbing off on you, Ser Payne?”

 

He was struggling to put on his shoes, the wine affecting his mobility. Podrick got tired of waiting for him to do it and slapped his hands away to slip his left shoe on.

 

“You’re going to have to stop drinking so much. You can’t even get dressed properly,” Ser Davos told him.

“I am bored.”

“That’s no excuse.”

 

Once all his clothes and shoes had been put on correctly, Ser Davos and Ser Podrick nearly carried him out of the brothel to put him in a carriage.

 

“She’s alive. King Bran will explain. I don’t know how, but she’s alive. She’s apparently been seen around in Essos, where her dragon was last spotted.”

“And are we sure it’s not a common whore who knows how to use bleach? I’ve been to a brothel or two in Volantis. The look was quite popular.”

“Not unless the ‘common whore’ has found a way to trick the Unsullied and the Second Sons into believing she’s Daenerys Targaryen, no,” Davos answered him.

 

And right there and then, Tyrion Lannister had found a new purpose and a new thing to dread all at once. The carriage was swaying dangerously as the wheels hit the cobblestones and stray pieces of fallen rubble that hadn’t yet been cleaned out of the streets. Tyrion felt woozy, dizzy, sick to his stomach. He didn’t know whether to blame the wine or the news for this.

 

“We need to get Jon Snow to come back here,” Tyrion declared. That would undoubtedly solve everything.

“Good luck with that.”

“Surely, it’s his fault. Did he even kill her? We didn’t see her body. Do you think he faked her death? Let her escape?”

“That would be the most logical explanation, wouldn’t it?” Davos answered with a tone that implied that, as easy as that conclusion would be, he didn’t believe it at all.

“But?”

“I saw _him_ get resurrected by a red priestess once. Maybe that’s what has happened with her.”

“Resurrected? Surely you don’t mean she has been brought back to life.”

 

The look on Davos’ face assured him of the contrary.

 

“That’s preposterous!”

“I saw it happen with my own eyes! You weren’t there, at Castle Black. He was murdered by his own men! And then the Lady Melisandre brought him back. I saw it happen. His body was dead and cold and covered in stab wounds. He was dead. And then she performed her blood magic on him and he was alive.”

“I’m too drunk for this.”

“Yes well, you better sober up. Because she’s going to want to kill us all, I can tell you that.”

“I tell you, we need Jon Snow to come back here. He’s the only one who could stop her from killing us all.”

“Do you think she would listen to him? After what he did to her?”

“If he did anything to her at all, you mean?”

 

Davos was looking grumpier by the second.

 

“We’re here!” Podrick interrupted.

“I hate this fucking castle,” Tyrion groaned as he opened the carriage’s door to step out into the street.

 


	4. Of Truths and Schemes

**  
Chapter 4: Of Truths and Schemes**

 

She had spent the last four days in bed, guarded by her two commanders and a praying priestess that came to see her at least four times a day. On the first day, Grey Worm had been quite the pleasant surprise, he had looked so proud and happy to see her.

 

“I thought it was all over,” he had told her in Valyrian. “I thought I was all alone.”

 

She had grabbed his hand firmly, trying to reassure him, trying to show him how much she cared for him.

 

“You’re not. I’m so sorry I left you alone.”

“When the red priestess found me, I did not want to believe her. I told her she was lying and that she should leave my ship.”

“And what did she say?”

“That you would need me when you woke up.”

“She was right.”

 

He smiled at her sadly, and they sat there in a silence for a while.

 

On the second day, it wasn't long before their little idle chitchat had turned to deeper discussions, but it wasn't long before Daario had informed them that it was quite rude of them to speak in a language that he did not speak.

 

“Perhaps we ought to teach you, then,” she had responded.

“I’d rather you focused on getting stronger, you gave me quite a fright yesterday.”

 

She had sighed and sat up straighter against the bedpost.

 

“I don’t know what happened. I have all these memories stuck in there,” she said as she pointed her finger to her temple. “And sometimes they come out and I don’t know what to do with them. This morning, I remembered a feeling, and everything else faded away. I’m just… I get lost between this life and the last, I think. And I know you’ll see this as a weakness. I know you, I remember you. You told me that I wouldn’t be a Dragon Queen without my dragons. And here I am. They’re dead, aren’t they?”

“They are. But you still have one left.”

“Is that all that matters?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is that all that ties your loyalties to me?”

 

He had frowned at her, physically recoiled away from her. She had seen this on another man before. She found it funny, in a way, how the two remind her of each other. They loved her until they didn’t. They loved her until she didn’t not have anything left to give them.

 

“Do you think that’s why I’m here? Because of a __dragon__?”

 

He had been angry, that much had been clear.

 

“I wouldn’t blame you. You wouldn’t be the first. You’re a sellsword. I don’t expect you not to be one.”

“A sellsword? Is that what I am to you? I kept your peace! While you were on another continent!” Do you know what I have had to deal with in the half year you’ve been gone? Do you even care?”

“Of course I do! About you, about Meereen, about everyone! I care so much about so many different things it tears me up. The things I’ve lost. The things I’ve seen. I fought the dead, Daario. I fought dead bodies. How do you even explain that to someone who wasn’t there? Jorah died protecting me from them. And I died anyway. Don’t go thinking I was having a nice time in Westeros. I didn’t. I died.”

“Yes I know! Don’t think I don’t! Do you know why I’m here? It’s because I thought you were dead!” he shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at her and getting up from the armchair that had been sat next to her bed, kicking it backwards in the process.

At this, Grey Worm had stood up, placing his hand on the pummel of his sword. Daenerys had shaken her head at him.

 

“I thought you were dead, that’s why I’m here! I saw your dead, cold body! I… I can’t believe… Who do you think I am?” He scoffed humorlessly. “A dragon? You think a dragon could make me stay in fucking Meereen to rule? I haven’t even been with another woman since you left!”

 

She hadn't answered, keeping her eyes fixated on Grey Worm instead. The poor man looked anguished enough as it was. She needed to have this conversation alone.

 

“ _Issa sȳz. Henujagon īlva,_ ” she had told him. “ _Umbagon hen._ ” It’s alright. Leave us. Wait outside.

 

He had nodded solemnly, bowed to her and left with a silent harsh gaze for Daario.

 

“I’ve kept my word to you. Half a year! You were gone, I had no word from you. I did everything you asked of me, and the first I hear of you is from that Red Priestess who sends me a fucking raven to tell me you’re dead and that I need to be here for you! How do you think I felt! I love you! I have loved you all this time! And I thought I would come for your __funeral__ when I came here! I had no idea what had happened to you! Not a word, after all this time… You couldn’t spare me a letter? Or did your Hand dissuade you from doing so? How many men did he wed you to? I should have known something was wrong. I should have known. I never once trusted that dwarf. Not for a second. I knew it was his doing. When you left me. I knew it. And look what good that did you, listening to him. I told you. I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t have listened to you. I should have followed you anyway. You would have been mad at me, at first. But you would have been safe. I wouldn’t have let that Snow man touch you. Never.”

 

The dwarf. Tyrion Lannister. She hadn’t really thought about him yet. She could see it all happen again, in her head, the little pin she had put on his jacket a long time ago, the same pin he had thrown to the ground. The betrayal. The broken promises. Jon Snow. Tyrion Lannister. Sansa Stark. _Varys_. He had tried to poison her. He had wanted her dead. Why? She couldn’t remember _why_. Why had they all betrayed her? None of it made sense.

 

She had looked at Daario’s sorrowful face and had sighed in defeat. He was right. Maybe things would have been different, had Daario come with them. He looked at her again, and when his eyes met hers, all traces of anger had disappeared. He had knelt at her bedside and had taken her hand in his, raising it to his face to press it against his lips.

 

“I have told you before. My sword is yours, my life is yours, my love is yours. Dragon or no dragon. I would follow you to the end of this world, if you’d let me.”

 

She had felt the tingling sensation in her eyes and had avoided his gaze. He had sighed and lowered her hand, evidently taking her silence for rejection. He had made to stand up again, she could see it from the corner of her eyes.

 

“I would.”

“What?”

“I would let you follow me to the end of the world. I would probably need you there too.”

 

On the third day, Daario had gone out to speak with some of his soldiers that were garrisoned outside the temple, and Grey Worm’s company had been a welcome presence.

 

“I gave them a trial, for what they did to you. I tried to avenge you with justice,” he had informed her after a while.

“What do you mean?”

“The dwarf and the traitor.”

 

He hadn’t said the names, and Daenerys understood why. Understood the pain that names could bring out.

 

“And what happened?”

“I wish I had not. I wish I had killed them both. They sent the traitor to the Northern prison and the dwarf talked his way out of everything. He has a new king now.”

“A new king?” she scoffed, disbelief making her rise from her seat. “I was their Queen was I not?”

“You were.”

“Who is it? Who is the King?”

“Bran Stark.”

 

She paced in silence for a while. A Stark. A _Stark_ was leading the kingdoms her family had built and united. She remembered Sansa Stark’s cold demeanor to her in the North. She remembered fighting for them, to defend their lands. She remembered Jorah dying in her arms. She remembered Jon Snow getting praised for… What had he been doing on her dragon?

 

She had let him climb on one of her dragons. She had entrusted him with one of her own children. It was overwhelming, in a way, to find out how much someone had meant to her after they’d betrayed her and killed her.

 

How many men had tried to have her killed before him? Too many, the list of names and faces almost endless. Had he planned it all along? Had he always wanted to kill her? Her instincts told her yes, told her that no one could ever be trusted, that everyone always wanted to use her or kill her. Sometimes both. But not Grey Worm. And apparently not Daario. She had been wrong with him. She hadn’t trusted him the way he deserved to be trusted. She had thought him a sellsword, faithless, arrogant, boisterous and proud. And yet, he had come back to her, he had held his word to her. She had been blinded by the lying Lannister’s words.

 

“They’ve been plotting behind my back for a while, haven’t they?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long has it been since I died?” She stopped at a window to look outside, the street was busy, a woman was running after her child, a man was loading crates onto a wagon.

“Almost a moon, now.”

“Did they even wait at all? How soon was I erased from history?”

“Ten days ago.”

 

She scoffed, turned away from the window and shook her head.

 

“Can you tell me what happened? I only remember it in bits and pieces. I know Jon Snow killed me. But I don’t know why. I want to understand.”

“He didn’t approve of what you did. He judged me too. He judged us all. He thought he was better than us.”

 

She had paused at this, and had tried to find a logic in what he was saying. Why would he judge her? Was she a bad person? Was he better than her? What had she done to deserve a betrayal? Had she tried to kill him? Had she taken things from him?

 

“Was he? Was he better than me? Better than you?”

“No. He was weak. A coward.”

“What happened?”

“After Missandei… I have no fear. We took King’s Landing. You killed the Golden Company, burned them quickly. The other soldiers gave up their arms, they were weak. But I did not want to stop fighting them, not after what they did. So I fought. So did all the soldiers, the traitor’s men too. You were with Drogon, you helped us win. You burned them. All of them. We won. You killed the Queen in the red castle. You gave justice to Missandei.”

 

Daenerys did not answer. There were tears in her eyes, but she could not explain why they were there. He made it seem so simple, so nice. She had helped her soldiers win. She had defeated her enemies. She had won the war. She had avenged her closest friend’s death. Only the thought of it all filled her with dread, with fear, with this weight deep in her belly that tugged at her entrails.

 

She had won it all and died. Had she even won at all, in the end? Grey Worm had told her the events, but it still made no sense to her. She remembered none of it. Only her death remained. Only the smell of ashes, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice and the cold of a blade and the iron taste of blood in her mouth. All of her senses on high alert. And then the nothingness.

 

“Do you know where his dagger is? The one he stabbed me with.”

“No. When I looked for you, he was alone with your blood on the floor. No body. He said Drogon had taken you.”

“Well, he didn’t lie about that, at least. I should go and see Drogon, he must be worried.”

“He is hunting at sea. He brought a whale to the shore this morning.”

“He mustn’t have been eating enough before, he must have been too worried. I will come see him tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t think they will let you out,” he replied, tilting his head towards the door.

“I’d like to see them try,” she told him, defiant.

 

He grinned at her with pride.

 

On the fourth day, Daenerys had had enough of the heady scent of incense and Kinvara’s prayers.

 

“I need to go see Drogon,” Daenerys announced as the First Servant was standing up from her seat next to her.

“Yes, I do think that is wise. You need his strength, he is a part of you. And he needs yours. He needs to grow stronger, if you must avenge your own death. He needs you.”

“Do you think I should?”

“It does not matter what I think. But the Lord of Light has brought you back for a reason, and I do think vengeance is a part of his plan. You have purified the sinners of King’s Landing in his name, they worshiped the False Gods. You must now kill the False King.”

“You know about him?”

“I have known about him for a long time. His god wants to destroy the world, to control it. He is a threat to us all.”

 

Daenerys was not the sort of woman to put her faith in gods. She had met a lot of them along the way, none ever answering her wishes. She had become her own faith, her own goddess, only trusting herself to do what needed to be done. But here she was, alive after having been stabbed to the heart, after having been dead for weeks. A god believed in her more than she believed in him.

 

 

 

**Yara**

 

 

The moment she had laid foot on Pyke, Yara had nothing but one goal in mind: reclaiming her Kingdom’s independence.

 

She had been complacent enough in King’s Landing. She had played nice enough. But the Ironborn were not known for being either of these things. She had a plan. She would soon sail North. But she needed time to prepare her raid.

 

The logic was simple: Sansa Stark had declared herself Queen in the North. Sansa Stark had declared the North an independent Kingdom. The Iron Islands were part of the Six Kingdoms under Bran the Broken’s rule. And since the North was not part of this, she would not break any oath towards her temporary King by raiding and pillaging every inch of the Northern coast. Yara was therefore free to plan and scheme as she wanted. This would also insure that the Iron Islands would be fairly decently set in grains and meats for the harsh winter months that would follow.

 

That was the first part of her plan.

 

The second part included a very different ordeal. The second part was treason, plain and simple. She just needed to get in touch with that one handsome, brooding Dornish Prince she had been sat next to during her King’s coronation.

 

From what little she knew of him, Quentyn Martell was not as appealing a fellow traitor as Ellaria Sand had been. First of all, he was not set on getting vengeance for his family, that much was obvious to her, he did not look like a passionate man. Second, he was more serious, less charming and definitely not as flirtatious as Ellaria had been, which would certainly make him more boring and less enjoyable than she had been.

 

But traitors could not be choosers, and Yara would have to do with what she had to do. Getting him to agree to join her in her fight against her newly appointed King would certainly be easy enough. The Dornish were not known for their inclination towards the Crown. Far from it. Ellaria had followed Daenerys Targaryen against the Lannisters, but the Dornish resented being part of the Seven Kingdoms. Yara did not think that reminding the Martell prince of the words of his house would be too hard a quest.

 

Then, once the North had been raided and her alliance with Dorne settled, Yara would seek justice for her Queen.

 

With the Dornish army and her Iron Fleet, taking back King’s Landing would be easy enough. They had practically no armies save from a few stray Lannister soldiers and the Vale, which would need to be taken care of in a different manner.

 

She had thought of everything.

 

Once Sansa Stark would realize that her precious Kingdom was being plundered, she would try and fight her back, but the Northern armies would need time to come help the coastal cities, and they would be easy pickings from her boats. She would attack them at night, she would wait them out and burn them out. And once the Stark Queen would realize that she had no fleet of her own, she would have to go and ask help from the other Kingdoms.

 

Most would certainly not help. Her own brother would not be of much help. He had no armies at all to lend her.

 

But the Vale most certainly did. And the Stark girl’s cousin and his armies would come help her. Yara was sure of that. They would come North to defend the villagers against her own armies, and that would be the perfect moment to pluck the Vale’s armies out.

 

Yara would not relent, not ever. Her brother had died to defend the Starks, and the Starks had betrayed them every step of the way. They had stolen him from her and his family. They had taken his burial away from her. They had __burned__ him on a pyre. He would not rest. He should have been buried at sea. They had taken his death away.

 

Her brother had died for them. Her Queen had been killed by one of them and they had taken her throne away from her to give it to a Stark. And there was no one on this earth that Yara hated more than the Starks.

 

Yara Greyjoy swore this to herself as she landed on her home island, she was going to bring justice to them both. In the name of her late Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, and in the name of Theon Greyjoy, she would lay waste to Westeros.

 

 


	5. Dreams of Freedom and Waterfalls

 

**Chapter 5: Dreams of Freedom and Waterfalls**

 

Daenerys had gone to the shore where Drogon had last been seen at the break of dawn on the fifth morning after her rebirth, anxious but excited at the prospect of seeing him again. But her dragon had not been there, she had called for him and had waited and waited, but he had not come. She supposed he was too far away to feel her, as she had not been able to feel him either. And so they were supposed to try again at night. She had been disappointed, worried. What if he too was to be taken away from her? What if he had been injured? What if he needed her help and she could not sense him?

 

“Do not worry, your Grace, he will come back soon. Come, we must bring you back.”

  
Kinvara had been trying to get Daenerys to go back inside the Red Temple to wait for the twilight to come. Daenerys had refused, wanting to discover the city for the first time. The hot sun made everything look clearer, brighter, happier, and she did not want to go back inside, where the air was heavy and the strong smells of oils and incense were starting to give her a never ending headache. She loved the fresh air, the smell of the ocean that was carried in by the wind which was somehow made to blend with that of the spices in the market. She had persuaded the red priestess to accompany her and her two companions to the city. They were tourists, truly, visiting and looking at historical monuments and beautiful buildings. She had only spent a few hours roaming through as many streets as she could, but she was positively enthralled by the city. She loved every street, every merchant, and every store.

 

She had not felt that happy since she had been reborn. She did not even remember the last time she had been that happy before then, either. This was what life could be like. This was what fate had taken from her. This was what she had always dreamed of. Happiness. She did not remember what it was like, before, to be truly happy.

 

Maybe… The sight of a waterfall and the cold hitting her face struck her to her core. She had been happy, then. She had looked into Jon Snow’s eyes. Her lover’s eyes, and had felt love and trust. She had felt safe. She had felt hope. She had been at peace and in love.

 

Had he always planned on betraying her? Had he always known he would kill her? For what? Why had he done it? Would she ever be safe, in the end? Would she always need to hide?

 

“Do you think I should dye my hair?” she asked the priestess as they were walking past a small shop that was selling dyeing pastes and powders. The idea was tempting, the possibilities endless. The only reason anyone ever knew who she was was because of her hair. She was too distinguishable.

“Why would you do that?” Kinvara looked appalled by the idea, as if she’d just suggested dyeing the priestess’ hair and not her own.

“So that no one suspects I’m alive,” Daenerys answered. She knew the dangers, the risks of even staying outside for too long. You could never trust a stranger on the street, you couldn’t even trust the people you knew. Everyone had a price, everyone had a reason. How much would they pay to have her killed this time? What type of highly skilled assassin would they send her? How many of them would come for her? She had spent most of her life running from Robert’s assassins. How soon would Bran do the same?

“You’re far from the only person with silver hair in these lands, your rule has inspired a lot of women to bleach theirs to look like yours. You mustn’t worry.”

 

She had thus ended walking quickly through the streets of Volantis, a loosely-tied brown scarf – which she had insisted on buying, not feeling completely safe otherwise – covering her hair, Daario and Grey Worm a few feet behind her and Kinvara at her side. She felt like a child again, smiling at every passing stranger, unafraid of being recognized, she felt freer than she had been in years. No one was looking for her, no one wanted her dead anymore.

 

Because no one knew she was alive, news had traveled to Essos fast enough, and she had heard people whisper her name as she passed by, only they weren’t talking about her, weren’t pointing their fingers at her. They were talking about the dead Queen. She heard the name but never acknowledged it, never turned her head to look at the people who mentioned it. But she heard the concern in their voices, the fear of change, the fear of dangerous possibilities that they now could be facing. She yearned to hold their hands and speak sweet words of reinsurance into their ears, but did not do any of it. It did not concern her, not today. She was free today, for the first time in her life.

 

She had never been free before. All her life, she had had to look behind her, to make sure that she was not being followed by yet another strange man who wanted her head. Queen Daenerys Targaryen had died, and so Daenerys, the woman, was now free to live as she pleased. There was freedom in death, in anonymity, in being unknown, in yielding little to no power, in not being born into greatness. This was the life she had always yearned for.

  
They were walking through the crowded streets, something Daenerys had never quite allowed herself to do since her Dothraki wedding. She wanted to make up for lost time, and had been stopping at every shop they had passed by. She had made everyone stop to get drinks at a local tavern. She was giddy at the sheer thought of it. She had never allowed herself such impropriety. Viserys would certainly never have approved. This was not regal, this was not queenly. It made her ridiculously happy. She had ordered ale and had drunk the fizzy, bitter drink with a smile. She had made jokes at Daario and Grey Worm’s expanse, as they were refusing to drink with her. She had ordered four drinks from the innkeeper as soon as she’d walked in, and had received a few strange looks in return. But Daenerys did not care today.

 

“Live a little! Go on! One! Just one! I have never been to a tavern before!” she told Grey Worm and Daario as she was practically shoving cups of ale in their faces. Grey Worm was the first to cave in.

 

“Ha! Thank you! You deserve this drink, my friend,” she told him as she was munching on a piece of cured meat and bread a plump, red-cheeked brown-haired maid had brought to them.

“Who is this person? What have you done to my Queen?” Daario asked her with a smile as he finally took the cup she was offering him. Daenerys rolled her eyes at him.

“Your Queen is bored with queenly things. I will be queenly come next morrow. But today I am a just me. Give me this, give me today.” She was looking at the three of them with a pointed look. “I will lay waste to continents and armies if need be, I will hide every feeling I ever have, I will make all the tough decisions and be judged for it. I will never once let it be known that I would rather be here in this tavern with you than out there saving the world from monsters. I will be regal, fair and kind. I will do it all and never complain. But not today. Give me today.”

“Alright,” Kinvara conceded. “You have not had the easiest of lives. All things considered, I do not think that asking for one day is too much to ask for.”

“Well then I think it’s fair that you share take this cup of ale and enjoy some of this delicious meat the pretty maid has brought us.”

“D’you think her pretty?” Daario had asked her with a quizzical brow.

“I absolutely do,” she had answered with a proud smirk before taking another sip from her cup.

 

And they had had fun and had drunk a bit more than a drink each. After a while, they had run out of meat and bread, and had asked for a platter of cheeses, nuts and grapes. They had eaten and drunk some more, had laughed and told stories. Feeling safe and merry, she had taken off the scarf and had pulled up her hair with a piece of string. She was loving every moment in this dark hole filled with ale, food, ruckus and laughter. Daenerys wanted to stay in this tavern forever, but fate had had other plans for her.

 

After her fourth drink of the day, a man’s voice had echoed loudly around the tavern, halting everyone’s discussions, startling her.

 

“Hey! Hey you! Aren’t ya the dragon queen?”

 

She turned around sharply, keeping her face as composed as she could manage. He was a red-faced man, most likely from Westeros, judging by the paleness of his skin, who had a finger pointed at her from his seat, a few tables over. He looked like a sailor, or a merchant.

 

“Me? I get that a lot, but no,” she replied, feigning innocence.

“You sure look like her, with yer hair like that, don’t she look like the Queen?” he asked his fellow sailors.

“Haven’t you heard?” another man spoke up, and she was thankful for the distraction, as everyone around the room had been looking at her and was now looking at the person who has spoken.

“What?”

“She’s dead, the dragon queen, the breaker of chains.”

 

The silence that followed his words was deafening.

 

“Are you sure?” a young, brown-skinned woman asked him.

“Aye, news travels fast. They say she took King’s Landing and was betrayed. They say the masters are already planning to retake the slaves.”

A wave of whispers traveled through the room. It dawned on Daenerys that slavery had not yet been abolished in Volantis. That she had never gotten a chance to free the slaves that were living here and that as pretty as the city had been to her, it was also filled to the brim with evil.

“I don’t think it’s true,” another person said. “I don’t think she can be killed. I’ve heard the stories, she can walk through fire, she is a dragon herself. She’s not like you and me.”

“Anyone can be killed. In any case, we’re going right back to business.”

“Where is that business of yours?” Daario spoke up beside her, taking her by surprise. He was angry but his tone was measured.

“Meereen! If she’s dead, she can’t stop us, can she?”

“Aren’t the Second Sons still guarding the city?” Daario asked again, and she could see he had put his hand on the pummel of his short, broad sword. She knew he was ready for a fight.

“Aye they are, but who cares about a few sellswords? It’s not them we feared. It’s her and her dragons. And she can’t defend the city now.”

“Maybe you _should_ be afraid of the sellswords,” he had stood up so abruptly his chair had fallen to the ground in a matter of seconds, his shining sword now out of its sheath, he stood his ground.

 

The red-cheeked maid screamed in fear and the cups she had been carrying scattered to the ground, splashing ale and wine over the stone floors. Everything was happening so quickly, Grey Worm was standing up too, only he had grabbed her by the arm and had placed himself in front of her. She could not see what was happening anymore.

 

She heard shouts again, men were swearing and yelling and then the sound of metal clashing against metal, groans and moans of pain and a wet gurgling sound. Someone had had their throats filled with blood.

 

Much like _she_ had. Was Daario dead? Had it been his blood making that wet, disgusting sound? She was terrified, she closed her eyes and tried to breathe, but felt dizzy and terribly alone.

 

Someone grabbed her hand, she could not see, she could not hear, she was not breathing properly. They were running through the streets again, and after a while, they had stopped. She opened her eyes again, terrified of what she might see. Kinvara let go of her hand, Grey Worm was at the corner of the small alley they were hiding in, looking out for any possible attacks. A few feet away from her stood Daario, bloodied but definitely breathing and unharmed.

 

“You’re alive,” she breathed out as she came to him to put her arms around his torso. He was taller than her, which made the gesture awkward, but she had been too afraid to care about awkwardness. Relief made everything fade away. She was not ready to lose anyone else, not after everything.

 

“I’m alright,” he told her, one of his hands coming to hold the back of her head. “I’m covered in blood, though, you might not want to get covered in it as well.”

“I don’t care… I don’t. I thought you were dead for a second.”

“Well now, you know what it feels like.”

“Don’t joke about things like that.”

 

She let go of him to glare at him, scornful and serious.

 

“You shouldn’t worry.”

“But I must. I always must. It would be easy to forget, now, that I was a Queen. I feel like a woman, walking here with you, drinking and eating amongst the people. I felt like a commoner, living freely. I have dreamed of this life before, but I know it is not what my fate demands. I could try to live here if I wanted to, try to find a home of my own and make a living one way or another. I could, if I let go of what the fate and gods demand. And yet, the dread is here, always here, it never relents. I have always worried about death. And now that I have died and lived to tell the tale, I fear I must run from it again.”

“That is because you know, just as R’hllor knows, that you can never be free as long as the false God has his eye on you,” Kinvara intervened, looking at her intensely. “He will never stop looking for you, even if I can try to stop him from seeing you. He will persist. And one day he might find you. You need to go to him first, before it is too late. I feel I need to advise you to reach out to all your allies, people need to know you’re alive. The Dothraki are not too far gone into their sea, and the Queen of Salt and Rock already seeks to avenge you with the Sun’s son. Soon, you shall sail.”

“Who?” Daenerys asked. Why did the priests and priestesses of the Lord of Light always feel the need to speak in riddles? She was tired of riddles.

“The Prince of Dorne and the Queen of Pyke.”

“Yara Greyjoy?” Daario asked her.

“Indeed. She is raiding the Northern coasts as we speak.”

 

This made Daenerys pause for a second, she placed a hand on Kinvara’s forearm. Behind her, she heard Grey Worm come closer but did not turn around to look at him. He was guarding her, he made her feel safer.

 

“Why would she do that?” Daenerys asked before realizing that the Ironborn’s oaths to her had ceased to matter the second she had died. “Oh, she no longer has to uphold her promises to me… But why the North?”

“She seeks to avenge you, your Grace.”

“It is true that Lady Sansa was never quite warm to me, but I do not think this warrants such an attack on her people.”

“It is Queen Sansa, now, your Grace.”

“Queen? Queen of what?”

“The North. She has declared the North as an independent kingdom.”

“She did what?” Daenerys scoffed as she took away her hand and folded her arms in front of herself.

 

The thought was laughable, for sure, but as ridiculous as she found it, the idea was more grating and irritating than anything. After all she had done for the North! The Starks really did not have an ounce of respect nor of propriety in them.

 

“The audacity! And I suppose that her _brother_ , the _King_ , is the one who allowed it to happen?”

“Yes he agreed to it indeed.”

“And Yara is pillaging her in retaliation?” she thought out loud, taking time to understand the situation fully. “Oh she is smart. She’s not breaking any oaths. Her new King cannot say anything about this, because she is not attacking an allied kingdom. I will send a raven to the Iron Islands, as soon as we get back. I daresay the Queen of the Iron Islands will be thrilled to hear about my being alive.”

“That is wise, your Grace. Now, come, your son awaits you.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Jon II**

 

He dreamt of her again, almost a week after he got news of her rebirth, of her second chance. She was dead and alive all at once, in his dream. Somehow more real than she had been so far. He had tried to avoid her, had tried to stay awake for as long as possible. And there she was, glorious and poised. She had been awaiting him. She was glaring at him, pointing her finger at him. It was night, but he seemed to see her more clearly than he had ever seen her in his dreams. She looked alive, she looked tangible. He felt like he could just go to her and hold her tight, heal her wounds and his all at once.

 

He was dead and alive too, somehow. He had only been alive after he had been resurrected when he was with her. She had breathed fire into his lungs, had engraved her name into his skin, had made his heart beat the same rhythm as hers. He had only ever loved and hoped and lived, truly lived, when he had been with her. Nothing could ever compare to the softness of her skin and the shivers that set fire to his own skin whenever she got close to him. She was his weakness and his strength, his sanity and his madness. She would drive him spare, push him to the brink. He had started speaking to himself and to her all at once in broad daylight. The wildlings were beginning to eye him strangely, with good reason.

 

“You have betrayed me,” she accused him, and guilty as he was, he still relished in the fact he was hearing her voice.

“I did, Dany, I’m so sorry,” he replied, the words catching in his throat. He wanted to fall to his knees, to beg for her mercy. He would do anything to bring her back to him, to raise her from the dead. How dearly he wished he could be the Night King now, he would bring her back to him, he wouldn’t care about her cold, dead skin or her shining blue eyes, she would be with him again.

 

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

 

He made to reach for her, but the closer he got to her the further away she seemed to be.

 

“You shouldn’t have kissed me. You shouldn’t have killed me. I trusted you. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t. And I did.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. I love you.”

“Do you? Do you? I don’t believe you. In any case, it does not change anything. I have given everything to you. I have offered all I had. You took it all and killed me.”

“What you did...” he started but stopped halfway through. He did not want to tell her, he did not want to think about it. To relive it.

“What did I do? Tell me. Tell me what I did! No one tells me. No one tells me the truth.” she pleaded, her tone anguished. She was walking towards him, wearing a light, pale grey nightgown which stuck to her skin and that he had never seen her wear before. Her pale skin seemed to glow against the moonlight, her bare feet treading softly in the snow. She did not seem to mind the cold like she usually did. Her face was guarded, careful and tired.

“You killed them! You burned them! Children, Dany! You killed children! And you weren’t even sorry! Not even sad!”

“Was I? I can’t remember any of it. I only remember you and the dagger. You know what it feels like, don’t you? Dying? Being stabbed? You knew it and you did it to me anyway.”

“I had to. You were going to kill us all. You burned children alive, Dany. I couldn’t let you do this.”

 

She did not reply, and he took a step towards her. She was crying, standing still and alone. He realized where they were now. The waterfalls, even at night, they were a gorgeous sight. He remembered her rosy cheeks and the familiar smell of foreign flowers in her hair, her warm, honeyed breath against his lips. She had made him feel alive, made all his senses tingle and his nerves had urged him to reach, to touch, to become one. He had yearned and grazed, his forefingers stroking patterns against the crown of her head, desperate to get her closer to him. She had gasped and moaned and he had swallowed every sound, had recorded every single one of them in his mind.

 

But there she was now, in the same setting, crying in silence. He took a tentative step in her direction, she did not recoil, did not flinch away. She was only a few feet away now, he could see the tears streaming down her cheeks. He could not recall ever seeing her cry before, not in his dreams and not when she had been alive, either.

 

But she was alive again, his mind reminded him. He was terrified of this.

 

“Is it true?” he asked her.

“What is?”

“Tell me… I need to know, Dany, I need to know if you’re alive.”

“Don’t call me that. How many times do I have to tell you? You’re just like him, you know? He tried to kill me, wanted to carve my child out of me. Pointed his sword at me. I used to think you were like Rhaegar. Do you remember, when we were at Dragonstone? You told me you didn’t enjoy what you were good at. And it reminded me of him, of what Ser Barristan told me of him. But I was wrong. If anything, you’re just like Viserys, you did to me what he wanted to do. He was my last family member. Until you. _You_ were my last family member and I loved you more than anyone else in this world. Look at me now, look at what you did to me,” she told him as she untied a couple of laced knots that held her nightgown together. Had any of this happened in another circumstance, he would have felt his blood pumping, he would have felt a thrilling urge to go to her to kiss and lick at every inch of her skin, to stroke and graze until she would beg him for more, but he was left wordless, gaping, staring hard at the reddened wound that lay betwixt her breasts. It was so small and yet so much to look at. He saw it all happen again, in his head. He saw the blood fall from her lips as her life was leaving her body, her lifeless eyes staring back at him.

 

“Do you see, now? Do you see?” she asked him, snapping him out of his memory. He faltered, he felt like fainting, like dying.

 

He fell to his knees. “I do, I do,” he told her as he lowered his gaze. The sight of his deed too much to bear. His strength had left him, his life had left his body.

 

Why was he alive again? Why had the gods cursed him with a second life? He should have stayed dead at Castle Black, none of this would have happened if he’d just stayed dead.

 

“I’m so sorry, forgive me, please,” he begged her.

“You know I can’t. You know there is no forgiveness left.”

 

He knew. He whimpered on the floor, helpless and guilty. She ignored his cries and spoke up again.

“How long have you been here? In the North? Are you hiding from me?”

 

Her words surprised him, he looked up again, she had closed her nightgown and retied the knots. She looked as regal as always, as beautiful as the first day he had seen her.

 

“I’m trying to find peace.”

“Peace?” she scoffed. “Are you really so foolish as to hope for peace? You’ll never find it again. Neither will I. You will be haunted forever, and I am doomed to haunt you forever. This is the life you chose for us both.”

“I need to know if you’re alive,” he asked her as he struggled to stand up. He was regaining his composure, her demeanor demanded he be strong. He needed to be able to face her.

“Hasn’t your friend told you this already? Haven’t you received news of this?”

“Is it true, then?”

“Who can say?”

 

He was getting exasperated. He walked closer to her again, his temper making his fears and his guilt fade away, he grabbed her hand. This was the first time he’d been able to touch her in his dreams. Some part of him rejoiced at the sheer possibilities that lay ahead of him now that this was something he could do. He could touch her again, he could hold her again, he could kiss her again.

 

“Tell me,” he demanded, growing impatient. “I need to know.”

“You do not get to have this answer, not from me, not ever. It is not yours to know. Why do you need to know? Why should it matter to you? You killed me once. Are you planning on killing me again?”

“No, no, I would never… If I could go back, I’d kill myself instead.”

“Jon...”

“I would, I swear to you I would. I wouldn’t be able to do it twice.”

“Jon,”

“But they want me to, you need to know, they want to kill you. All of them. They made me do it once, they will try again. They already are looking for me, they’re probably looking for you. They know where you are.”

“Jon!”

 

He was awake again. Tormund was standing next to his makeshift wooden cot, looking worried. He stood up sharply, surprised and anguished.

 

“Ah, you’re finally awake, little crow, I’ve been tryin’ to rouse you! You talk in yer sleep. You got ‘nother bird. I’d read it to you, but I can’t read.”

 

Tormund handed out the letter to him and did not stay a second longer than necessary. He could see in the wildling’s face that he was concerned for Jon’s sanity.

 

He hadn’t been sleeping much, eating much or talking much since he got the first raven, six days ago. He did not want to sleep, he was scared of seeing her again. And he had been right for she would always find him in his sleep. He had had so much to tell her. He must have looked quite the sight, deep dark circles under his eyes, his dirty hair and cheekbones that were beginning to show how underfed he had been between his time spent in chains and the cold that was eating at his strength. He was but a broken shell of a man.

 

He stared at the rolled-up yellowed parchment in his hand and recognized the sigil embossed into the red seal wax. The lone wolf seemed to stare at him, to judge him silently. He sighed before he opened it up in a single swipe of his nail.

 

“ _Jon, I have received grave news from the King_ _of the Six Kingdoms_ _, I must advise you to read these words carefully and heed my request. King Bran and his faithful council have been informed that your former Queen has been risen from the dead, as you once were yourself. If this information is true, as I believe it to be, then we are all in grave danger. The North already suffers greatly from daily attacks from the Iron Islands,_ _your fo_ _rmer_ _Queen’s_ _allies have not upheld their oaths to the Crown_ _and have attacked both the Northern armies and the Vale’s armies which had come to help defend us_ _._ _Dorne appears to have joined the Greyjoy Queen in her rebellion._ _I do not have the forces required to hold back a Targaryen invasion, should she choose to strike us._ _I_ _must_ _therefore_ _do my duty and_ _ask for your help. I have been informed that you have received a letter from King’s Landing before, but that you did not reply to it._ _I have also been informed that you have deliberately chosen to leave Castle Black and have joined a group of wildlings North of the wall._ _I hope you understand the gravity of the situation and remember that the North used to be your Kingdom and that you swore to protect it. Ride South, join me in Winterfell. Together we must defend it from her wrath. You owe me this. You owe the North this. She was your Queen, you must protect us from her._

 _I hope this letter finds you in good health and that you will make the right choice._ _I have been assured that the raven that will carry this letter to you will know how to find you, I therefore await your answer shortly._

 

_Your faithful sister, the Queen in the North, Sansa Stark, first of her name and protector of the realm.”_

 

Would they _ever_ let him rest? Would they ever learn to defend themselves? He was pacing, he was furious, he was tired and exhausted. Why him? Why not any other bloody brooding fool who would be willing to risk his life? Why him? Why would she even care to ask for his help? He was but a lone fool trying to live in peace.

 

“ _Peace?_ _Are you really so foolish as to hope for peace? You’ll never find it again_.” Daenerys’ words rung in his ears.

 

He had killed her once. Because Tyrion had asked him to, had persuaded him there was no other way. Sansa was made Queen because of this, because she wouldn’t have bent the knee, because he couldn’t risk her getting killed for her pride. He had sacrificed everything for his family. He would not do it again.

 

He could not. He had nothing to give them anymore. If only they could just let him die in this frozen wasteland. He was tired of fighting, he was tired of living. He wanted to dream of his Queen. If he kept his eyes closed long enough, hard enough, she would be his again, she would love him again, he would not kill her, not harm her.

 

He once dreamt she had told him she was with child right as he stabbed her, and had woken up crying and shaking. In another one, she was living in a stony pyramid with a bearded man, and Grey Worm had been there too. She looked happy in that dream, but she never looked at him as he called her name. In yet another one, Drogon burned him alive in King’s Landing, and he had died alongside her.

 

He was tired of living, tired of fighting. He wanted to dream, now. He wanted to go right back to sleep and be with her.

 

He would ride South to see his sister, to tell her to never bother him again. And then he would ride to the waterfalls again and die there. He did not want to have to face Daenerys again, he did not want to face what he had done. He would die alone in the frozen cold. At last. At peace. Daenerys had liked it there. Perhaps she would join him, someday, after she had laid waste to this country, perhaps she, too, would need to rest under the beauty of the waterfalls. Maybe their bones would grow old together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is insanely long, so if you have made it all the way to the bottom of this page, I want to thank you for having spent so much time reading it.


	6. The Dragon and the Scroll

 

**Chapter 6: The Dragon and the Scroll**

 

 

 

The beach was quiet, the only sounds Daenerys could hear were those of seagulls flying high above and the slow rhythm of waves crashing against the sand and stones that were scattered all along Volantis’ shores. There was no one else but them, and the endless noise from the city was too far away for her to be able to hear it. It was calming, soothing. She could find peace here, watching the waves come and go, smelling the salt and feeling the warm wind in her hair.

 

She saw the charred remnants of the biggest animal she had ever seen, save from her dragons. The whale was truly gigantic in size. She had never known him to hunt for preys that big. Perhaps he sensed he needed to gain more strength, perhaps he knew he had to grow as much as possible before he could have a chance at avenging her.

 

He was perched on a rocky hill, asleep and still.

 

She could feel the fire ignite in her veins as she came closer to him. Gone was the free girl from this morning. She was the dragon queen, now. Reborn with a purpose. It had been easy to try to forget, to try to ignore who she really was. But she had ignored long enough, had waited long enough, had rested long enough.

 

She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, first of her name and mother of dragons. She might only have one child left but she still was the only person alive to have done what she had done.

 

She sensed his might, his fire was hers, he opened his amber eyes and she smiled at him.

 

He came to her and she came to him, they moved as one, she never felt anything but sheer power when she was with him, there was no reason for fear. He lowered himself to the ground and she climbed on him, grabbing to the spikes on his back for support.

 

She was at home, right there, with her son. She was safe and powerful. No one could try to harm her there.

 

There was safety in power, there was a certainty, a lack of vulnerability. She had been vulnerable for most of her life, and it had never brought her anything other than pain.

 

She would never let anyone or anything get close enough to hurt her, never again.

 

Daario was safe, or as safe as any man could ever be, for she never had to fear him getting too close. He did not make her feel like he would try to know her too well, or make her feel too much. There was no danger of completion, of becoming.

 

She could not, would not allow anyone to get close to her again. She was only ever safe when she was on top of Drogon.

 

But she needed to be safe all the time. She needed to be able to defend herself, like she had done when Jorah had tried to save her. If only she had been better with a sword, if only she had known how to fight, maybe he would still be alive. Maybe she would never have been killed.

 

She needed to learn how to fight, how to deflect blows. She needed to be safe. When the time would come for her to go to Winterfell again, she wouldn’t show an ounce of weakness. She would wear the thickest of armour and hold the broadest sword her arms would allow her to carry.

 

She would never know what defencelessness meant again. She would always be ready, always be prepared for a fight.

 

He would try to kill her again, she was sure of that. Only this time, she would not let him. He would not get the chance to get anywhere near her. No one else ever would. She promised herself that as Drogon extended his wings and kicked himself off the ground in one swift motion.

 

She had missed this. The feel of the wind in her unbraided hair, the warmth of his thick leathery skin underneath her palms and thighs, the comfort of familial ties that bound her son to her. Her dragon was flying smoothly, safely, he had not taken any harsh turns, hadn’t flown into the clouds or anything that might have disturbed her. He was being careful with her, she realized. It made her feel so moved she had to blink back tears.

 

He was now the one living being that had she had known the longest. Everyone always died, everyone always betrayed. But not Drogon, he was safety and power all in one. He took care of her and loved her as much as she loved him.

 

“Don’t worry about me,” she murmured to him in High Valyrian, knowing he would understand her no matter what. “Have fun, my sweet, I will be just fine.”

 

He roared in answer, and then took a deep dive to the sea below so quickly and so suddenly that she was certain she was about to be surrounded by water, her guts tensing at the sensation, she felt as if she were falling through the air, as if Drogon weren’t here at all. But he stopped at the last second and flew so close to the water she could feel salty droplets hit her in the face whenever he flapped his wings against the ocean.

 

He didn’t stay there for long, although he stay long enough to scare a few stray sailors on their tiny fishing boats in the process, and a few minutes later, he was soaring up into the clouds at such an angle she had to grip him so tightly her fingers and her legs hurt from exertion. It was terribly cold, up there, and she had to bend forward to stay close to his warmth. He played his little games for a while. She let him do it, let him fly as he wished in the moonlight. He was showing off to her, showing her how good he was at controlling himself.

 

She let him know how proud she was of him, and when the time came for her to turn back, she took back control.

 

When they came back to the shore, she dismounted him as swiftly as she could before patting him on the side. He flew away immediately, and she knew he had only come here to find her. He was hunting, he was growing stronger. Once she could not make out his shape in the dark sky, the first thing she did was walk resolutely towards Grey Worm and Daario.

 

“I will require your assistance,” she told them both, her head held high.

 

Queen Daenerys was back. Her day of freedom was over, night had come and with it her responsibilities and duties had come running to her.

 

“With what?” Daario inquired.

“I need to know how to fight.”

“Why do you need to know how to fight when you have a dragon?”

“Because four moons ago I had three. Because less than a moon ago I was killed. I am not immortal, nor am I immune to blades. I need to know how to defend myself, I cannot go back to Westeros if I cannot defend myself. I have been to the most dangerous of places before, I have survived the Red Waste, but nothing could prepare me for the atrocities that lay in this festering cesspool of a continent. I need to be stronger, I need to be safe. I will need armour, I will need a sword, no one will ever have another chance to kill me like this. You will teach me, the both of you. I need you to. Do you understand me?”

 

She hadn’t meant to get angry, at first, she had just wanted to make him understand, but her temper, her fire, had taken hold of her. She felt uneasy as the feeling lingered in her guts, as if she were afraid of it. Afraid of what she could do. It made no sense to her, but her body seemed to fear itself.

 

To her surprise, no one was looking at her in horror, they looked proud and emboldened by her words. Grey Worm nodded sharply at her.

 

“Well, here’s my conqueror again,” Daario grinned at her, and she sent him the tiniest of smiles in return. He was proud of that side of her, the side she barely wanted to acknowledge any longer.

“I do believe this to be wise, your Grace,” Kinvara told her.

“Do you have the dagger that was used to kill me?”

“It’s in the Red Temple, my Queen, we have been examining it along with your blood for foresight.”

“Foresight? And what has it told you yet?”

“A great deal, I learned about the Greyjoy Queen. I also know more about the man who used to wield the weapon.”

“And what of him?” Daenerys’ tone had not faltered, her voice had not trembled, she would not allow it, would not let her emotions get the best of her when it came to him.

“He’s no longer in chains, he’s no longer imprisoned. If you look for him, you must go further up North, as you once have done. Although he will soon leave it to join with his family in the destroyed castle. He plans to die soon, amongst falling water.”

 

Daenerys paused at this, trying to make sure she would not let anything show on her face. He would go back to Winterfell, the place where she had given and lost so much. The place where she had never known anything but hatred. He wanted to die near the waterfalls. The ones he had taken her to. The sheer gall of it all. She shook her head slightly, trying to shake away the thoughts. She needed to concentrate, to be completely focused on one thing. She could not and would not let her past win over her future.

 

“Well, once you’re done playing with the blade, have it sent to me. I’ll find a better use for it.”

“Very well your grace. I can arrange for it to be returned to you come the morrow. If I may ask, are you going to wield it too?”

“No, it isn’t worthy of that. It will serve me in another way. Does any of you know of a renowned black-smith that might live in the city? I have special requests that shall require the utmost care.”

“I will consult with the other priests and priestesses once we head back to the temple, your Grace.”

“Well, alright then. Shall we?”

 

They nodded at her and followed her as she made her way to the city. Clearly the wrong choice to make, for Daenerys was the person with the least amount of knowledge about Volantis out of the four of them. And they were walking in complete darkness now, save from the wooden torch Grey Worm had fashioned for them from a piece of wood he had found on the beach.  
  
The thought of her leading them made her want to giggle, they were following her blindly out of respect when she was likely to lead them to the complete opposite of where they were supposed to be going. Perhaps they would end up in another tavern and have just as much fun as they had had this very afternoon, she thought with a playful smile on her lips. And perhaps one of them would die as the result of her foolish need for freedom and enjoyment, the terrifying thought came to her before she could stop it, and her smile fell from her lips quicker than it had come to her.

 

They continued walking in silence, and after a while, when it appeared to her that they would not dare question her authority in the matter of directions to take, she turned around and asked: “well, which one of you shall be the one to lead us back to the Red Temple? I presume that the First Servant should be the one who knows her way back home?”

 

Kinvara had nodded in answer. “We’re not too far away from it now, but follow me.”

 

It felt safe, somehow to come back into the heavily-scented temple. She recognized faces there, servants, priestesses and maids alike, who smiled at her before curtseying awkwardly. She wanted to tell them not to bother, and that she had, in any case, never been Queen of Volantis, but they seemed to want to show her how much they respected her. Most of them did not even address her with her queenly titles, but talked to and about her as ‘Azor Ahai’. The name reminded her of another Red Priestess who had come to see her on Dragonstone.

 

“ _I believe you have a role to play, as does another.”_ The words echoed around her mind, what had been the point? Have her give everything to him and have him betray her and kill her? Is that what that Melisandre of Asshai had meant to do?

 

This was an issue for another day, Daenerys decided as they were walking along the corridor that led to her chambers. Grey Worm opened the door and Daenerys could see at least three different handmaids and servants in the grand room.

 

“A bath has been drawn for you, your Grace,” one of the young girls informed her.

“Thank you very much. You may all leave,” she told them. “You will not be needed tonight.”

“Your Grace?” Kinvara asked her.

“I can take care of myself, and I do wish to be left alone. You can all go rest, you have done more than enough for me as it is.”

 

Kinvara bowed and wished her good night before turning away. The servants curtsied and left behind her in silence.

 

“You may leave too,” she told her Master of War, who still had his hand set firmly on the golden handle of the wooden, intricately carved door.

 

He hesitated, looked at her with furrowed brows and a frown.

 

“How long has it been since you’ve had a good night of sleep?” she asked him, trying to persuade him to get a good night of sleep. He had dark circles under his eyes and did not look like the strong warrior she knew. He, too, had had quite a terrible stay in Westeros. “I shall need you rested for the morrow, we will have much to discuss, and you are, after all, my Master of War. Your advice will be essential. I have postponed this for too long. We prepare for war before noon. Go, you will serve me far better if you are rested. If you wish, you can send a few of your most trusted soldiers to guard the door. But I want you in your chambers, go and get some sleep.”

 

He eyed her carefully before nodding and then quickly bowing his head to her.

 

“My Queen,” he told her. “May you sleep well.”

“You too,” she replied with a smile.

 

He turned around and started walking away, then sent her and Daario one last look.

 

“Am I dismissed as well?” he asked her, cocking his head to the side.

“ _You_ may stay… Oh don’t look so smug about it, you might make me want to change my mind.”

“I haven’t known you to be so fickle.”

 

She ignored him, rolled her eyes and went to undress by the warm bath that the servants had generously drawn for her.

 

“You know,” the infuriating sellsword started to tell her as she was untying her corset. “The first time I ever saw you naked, you were coming out of a bath.”

“And?” she asked him, finally getting rid of the constricting garment, she stepped into the bath, turning around to face the daring man.

“It’s still as breathtaking a sight as the first time. I don’t think it’ll ever be mundane to me,” he had the decency to look half as amazed as his words made it sound like he was.

“Because I’m a Queen?” she inquired, lowering herself into the welcoming warmth of the flower-scented water. She knew that was her strongest quality to appeal to men.

“Because you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

 

She let out a little laugh and smirked against her own will as she turned her head away from him, both to avoid being seen by him and to grab a bar of soap that had been laid on a small bench near the bronze bath.

 

“Well? Don’t just stand there flattering me. Do come make yourself useful and help the most beautiful woman in the world get a proper bath, won’t you?”

 

 

It must have been about six hours later when she woke up, crying silently, to the sound of Daario’s deep, slow breathing. She had turned away from him, to make sure he would not see the proof of her weakness on her cheeks. She had had yet another dream about Jon Snow. This time, they were in front of the waterfalls where he was planning on dying. He had spent the entirety of the dream begging her for forgiveness and asking her if she was really alive. She did not want to tell him that, she just wanted to ask him why he had killed her. He kept on calling her ‘Dany’, the sound of the nickname made her feel ill, made everything worse. She told him about Viserys, about Rhaegal and Ser Barristan, about how wrong she had been about him.

  
“What did I do?” she had asked him. “Tell me. Tell me what I did! No one tells me. No one tells me the truth.” And he had told her something she did not want to think about.

 

How could a dream tell you the truth? It seemed impossible to her that what he had said to her in her dream was real, was what she had done. He had told her she had burned children alive, and she could not believe it. Could not even fathom finding truth in his words. That was not her. She would never do such a thing. Everything was fuzzy, in her head.

 

“Daenerys?” from behind her, Daario’s voice shook her out of her reverie. He coiled an arm around her waist his hand coming to rest against her wound.

 

“We should get dressed up, I want to get started on our plans as soon as possible.”

 

**Sansa**

 

 

 

She had not received any news from her half-brother – cousin, really, since she had sent him a raven a week ago, and impatience was beginning to rear its ugly head in her mind. He had not answered Bran either, she thought to herself, and maybe it ought to be of great concern to her. Maybe he was injured, or ill, or dead. But surely, Bran would have known if something was wrong with Jon, and therefore the blame for the lack of answer was on him, she told herself as she was staring at yet another scroll that she had received this morning. Not his, as disappointing as that was to hear. She kept receiving scrolls after scrolls, each day bringing yet another terrible piece of information to her.

 

Her Kingdom was under attack. It had been a moon now since the Greyjoy ships had first been spotted along her shores, plundering and pillaging. Sansa took little to no joy in knowing that she had been right all along about the Targaryen queen and her allies. Her villagers were suffering the price of her older brother’s foolery, and he had not had the courage to answer her simple request. He was responsible for this. He had an oath to uphold to her kingdom.

 

She opened her sixth scroll of the morning. One of her commanders was informing her of his defeat against Dornishmen. She sighed and threw the scroll as far away across her room as she could manage.

 

Ruling a kingdom was a bothersome, lonely affair. All her advisors were tedious, opinionated men who kept trying to dissuade her from doing anything that wasn’t born from their own minds. They kept telling her how to do anything, kept trying to stop her from doing what she wanted to do, what she thought was best. Every action she took or refused to take was a bad decision. Every troop sent one way should have been sent another. There was no victory to be had, no right way to do things.

 

They were costing her everything she had. She had had to ask for help from the neighbouring kingdoms, but none had agreed apart from the Vale.

 

She had rejoiced, at first, when she heard that she still had support from the Vale, but her joy had soon vanished when she had learnt that House Arryn’s ships had been attacked by the Iron Fleet on their way North. They had been supposed to come by foot, but had had to take another route. It appeared that her uncle, the Lord of Riverrun, had not appreciated her behaviour towards him back in King’s Landing and had sent her a raven in which he threatened to attack the Vale and the North should they try to send their armies through his Kingdom.

 

She had scoffed, at first, and had told her advisors not to heed Lord Tully’s words, but they had talked and talked and talked over her until she had had no choice but to let them do as they pleased.

 

And her cousin’s forces had taken a considerable amount of damage. She felt guilty, in a way, but could not help but blame her advisors for their arrogance and presumptuousness.

 

She was at war, and she was losing. Her one ally had suffered greatly, and so did she and her armies. Sansa could not defend her kingdom against the Dragon Queen, should she choose to strike. And she would, Sansa thought to herself. She would because she would be jealous of her, because Sansa had succeeded where she had failed. Because she was a Queen, because the Targaryen girl wanted everything to herself.

 

What Sansa desperately needed right this instant was for her brother to come back and deal with his own messes before Daenerys Targaryen would come and burn them all in their sleep.

 

She closed her eyes and exhaled, trying to find a solution. Perhaps she could try and play nice with Lord Tully… A knock on her bedchamber’s door stopped her mid-thought.

 

“Do come in,” she answered.

“Your Grace, I have word that your brother is well on his way to Winterfell. He was spotted South of the Wall last night. He should be here soon, perhaps in a day or two.” Lord Yohn Royce told her as he walked in, a slight frown on his face and both of his hands behind his back.

 

Sansa felt relief wash over her. At last, some good news. “Thank you for telling me, I will ask the servants to arrange for his chambers to be ready for his upcoming arrival.”

 

Lord Royce nodded at her, and she expected him to either leave or start talking. When he did neither of these things, she knew something was wrong.

 

“Is that all, my Lord?” she asked him.

 

He looked nervous, and waited a little before he started talking.

 

“Your Grace, you have received another scroll,” he mustered as he walked closer to her, holding out the folded up piece of parchment in her direction.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she sighed as she took the message from his hand, it felt heavier than usual.

“Your Grace, I’m afraid you must look at the sigil before you open it.”

 

She frowned at him before looking down at the piece of parchment, turning it over to look at the sigil. Dread filled her stomach so quickly she felt as if she were going to be ill.

 

She had chosen a tinted black wax on which Sansa could clearly distinguish the unmistakable three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. She glanced back up at her Lord Hand, hoping to find out he had been playing a trick on her, that this was not real.

 

But she knew Yohn Royce was not that sort of man. She knew the heavy parchment in her hands came from the one person in the world who could hurt her more than she was already being hurt by her allies.

 

“Leave me,” she told her Lord Hand and looked pointedly at him to make sure he would not say anything back to her.

 

He nodded and bowed a little – as much as his age would allow, she supposed – before turning on his heels to head for the door.

 

She waited until she could not hear his footsteps any longer before she grabbed her little silver letter opener and used it to open the offending message in one swipe of metal against parchment.

 

When she put down the knife and unfolded the raven, a stray piece of coiled leather fell out of it. She did not understand what it was, at first, and startled back, thinking it poisoned.

 

Sansa Stark closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to shake away her foolish fears before she leant back down towards the parchment and the piece of leather, taking the letter in both hands to read it.

 

“ _Dear Lady Stark, I have been informed that your brother is coming back down to Winterfell and have thus left a little present from me to him, do give it to him as soon as he gets back, I am sure he misses the blood-soaked weapon that was attached to the piece of leather I have sent him. I do regret to inform him that he will not retrieve the blade, as I have chosen to melt it down. You see, I am quite sure it will look much better poised on my head as a crown than it ever did lodged betwixt my ribs. Please make sure to let him know that he will get to have one last look at it before I pay him back. A life for a life._

 

_I have also been informed that your coastal villages have suffered greatly from being plundered by my dear friends the Prince of Dorne and the Queen of the Iron Islands out of loyalty to me, and I am sorry for the poor villagers who have had to suffer for your sake. I dearly wish to inform you that all of them shall be heavily compensated once I retake the Seven Kingdoms, both in grain and cattle.  
_

_Before I leave you to your newly acquired queenly duties, there is one last piece of information I wish to convey through this message. I have not forgiven nor forgotten your betrayal, Lady Stark, nor do I plan on doing so. I have a lot of things to deal with before you and I can have a hefty ‘discussion’ on the matter, but I do wish you the best in the meantime._

 

_Your Queen, Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, The Reborn, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons_

 

_PS: Do let your brother know that waterfalls do not make good resting ground and that his cowardice in the matter of his own death is duly noted._

 

Sansa was left wordlessly staring at the piece of parchment. She let out a heavy breath she had not realized she had been holding, folded up the message and hid it away under her bed. She was coming for her. She was coming for Jon. There was no hiding from her. She knew things Sansa did not know she could know.

 

How soon? How many days? How many weeks did she have left? The Dragon Queen was coming to wreak havoc on them all and Sansa had no idea how to survive her wrath.

 


	7. Daggers and Oathbreakers

**Chapter 7:** **Daggers and** **Oath** **breaker** **s**

 

“We are going back to Meereen next week,” she told the small gathering of people that were sitting around the big, heavy-looking wooden table that was sitting in the middle of the otherwise rather empty room Kinvara’s servants had led them into an hour and a half before.

 

“So soon?” the First Servant inquired, looking rather taken aback by Daenerys’ intentions, snapping her fingers at a passing servant boy. He did not look older than thirteen, had a small dark symbol she had trouble recognizing on his left cheek, his upper lip was covered with a dark peach-fuzz which would no doubt soon turn into a beard. He was rather skinny and overly-elongated in the limbs, no longer a child, not yet a man.

 

“Bring us another pitcher of Dornish wine and some lemon water, won’t you?”

 

The boy nodded, bowed his head slightly and scurried out of the room. Daenerys did not say anything on the matter, but felt a thousand different emotions tugging at her entrails.

 

“I would rather not draw all of this out for longer than necessary,” she told Kinvara instead. “I need the former masters to see me before they try and bring back slavery. You the men in the tavern, yesterday. I do not think I have much time before people die. I will not be responsible for this. And, as we have already discussed, I need some of my Unsullied to go East and retrieve my Dothraki Bloodriders. Someone ought to remind them that they have an oath to uphold regarding my death… And that they may never rest in the Night Lands to join the Great Stallion’s khalasaar should they fail to avenge me.”

“That might take a while,” Daario sighed, pointing a finger to the large map that lay on the wooden table. “My men tell me they’ve heard talk amongst some sheep merchant, they say herders have been attacked south of Qohor. Right there,” he tapped his finger on the small dot which represented the city.

“They’re nearing the Dothraki Sea,” Daenerys replied, taking one of the wooden figurines in the shape of a horse to place it near Daario’s finger. She kept her eyes on the map, tried her best not to let anyone know she was worried. And yet, the thought was quite concerning, she did not think they would reach their homeland so quickly.

“We need to act quickly,” she continued. “That is why Grey Worm will select two hundred of his most loyal soldiers to send them to Qohor as soon as possible. Tell them to head North, and then if need be, to head East.”

 

She raised her eyes to him, and so did he towards her at the mention of his name.

 

“Do I say them to tell Daenerys Stormborn lives again?” he asked her.

 

Daenerys considered this. It might make it easier for them to be reminded to uphold their sacred oath to her if they think her dead, but it might make them more scared of the consequences of their betrayal if they knew she was alive.

 

“Tell your soldiers to say I’ve sent them there, make sure they tell the Dothraki that their Khaleesi awaits them in the Great Pyramid of Meereen...”

 

She paused reluctantly after this, she felt bitter about having to say the rest of her sentence. She did not want to say it, but knew that her words were necessary.

 

“And that if they do not come back to me, I will go look for them.”

 

Grey Worm nodded, determination showing in his eyes. Daenerys was tired of betrayals, of all shapes and sizes. She was tired of having to remind her own men what loyalty entailed, what oaths meant, what trust was. She had never betrayed anyone, and everyone kept betraying her, no matter what she did. How was any of this fair? she asked herself, knowing full well that everyone in the room had their eyes set on her and awaited her next commands. To her surprise, Grey Worm spoke up again, this time not bothering with the Common Tongue for Daario’s sake.

 

“In Qohor, they have very good blacksmiths. It is said that they know how to make Valyrian Steel,” he tells her in Astapori Valyrian. “You need the best blacksmith, Mhysa.”

 

The name startled her, it was a long forgotten promise, a prayer of hope she had not been able to keep. A broken oath. She thought back to her days in Astapor, to the children she had saved, to the deaths that had followed her departure. Her failure was a stinging memory.

 

“Very well,” she told her Master of War. “You will ask your soldiers to find the best one in the city, and invite him to Meereen. Tell them not to tell my name and to be discreet, do not let them go in dressed in their armour. I don’t want to invite any unwanted visitors. You may go to your soldiers, they have to prepare as quickly as possible. Do you wish to go with them? It would pain me to have us part so soon after I…” she stopped at this, incapable of saying the words aloud. “After everything. But if you were to judge it necessary...” she trailed off.

 

He seemed to think about this for a while, and she could see that he was not happy about the possibility of being away from her.

 

“No,” he finally told her. “I will inform Black Flea, he is my commander now. He will lead the men and tell them everything. I trust him.”

 

She nodded in agreement. He moved away from the table, came past Daario to come bow his head in front of her.

 

“I will come see you when they are ready to leave, my Queen.”

“Do come back before then, we have much to discuss.”

 

He nodded one last time before he began to turn away from her and she grabbed his hand and told him: “wait!”

 

“I would like to eat supper with you tonight, if you would like. Try and be back before then?” she told him as she let go of his hand. She was tentative in this endeavour, for she knew that he was not used to these formal things. But he was no longer just a soldier, he had political power now that she had appointed him Master of War. He needed to be able to to talk to her freely, and she needed him to know she trusted his opinion. A dinner would certainly help things along.

 

“I will try,” he told her with the slightest of smiles. Daenerys nodded and grinned at him. He was looking better than he had the day before, had had good insight to tell them all. It made her feel proud and safe to know he was with her, to know he would fight for her and lead armies for her. He turned around and headed for the door swiftly.

 

She waited for him to leave before turning to the Red Priestess.

 

“Earlier,” she began. “You told me that Queen Yara had set up residence on Dragonstone whilst half of her army stayed on the North-western coast of Westeros, is that correct?”

“It is what the flames told me, yes.”

 

The servant boy came back with a bronze platter which carried two jugs and a set of golden cups. Daenerys tried to avoid looking at him, it made her uneasy, it made her want to run away from this temple, from this city, to know that the poor boy was not free. That he would never become a free man. She could feel the low rumble of anger in the depth of her stomach.

 

“Do you know why?” she asked Kinvara calmly, placing one of her hands on the edge of the table to grip it as hard as she could.

“She met the Prince of Dorne in Sunspear and then went North on the Eastern part of the continent to organize her next battle plans. I do believe that she is planning on attacking the Vale’s ships as soon as they will sail for White Harbour, your Grace.”

“Why would she attack the Vale? I do not recall ever being slighted by them. If it’s revenge she is after, I do not see the purpose.”

“The Vale is Queen Sansa’s...”

“Do not call her that. Do not make a farce out of the title,” Daenerys interrupted her, taking insult in the priestess’ misuse. She was a pretender, a usurper.

“My apologies, your Grace. I simply meant to say that the Vale is Lady Stark’s only ally. Her cousin is the Lord of the Eyrie and she has made Lord Yohn Royce her Hand.”

“She chose a Lord of the Vale as her Hand?

“It appears so.”

 

It was a bold move, certainly a strange decision, but decidedly bold.

 

“How do you know all of this? Did the flames tell you as well?”

“We receive news of Westeros regularly, your Grace, this was mentioned in a message to one of our highest ranking priests.”

“How long does it take, to receive these messages? How long do you think it would take to send messages to Westeros?”

“A few weeks at most, your Grace. We cannot rely on ravens to receive and deliver our news to and from the other continent, as the distances are too great and the poor birds would never survive the journey. But we have messengers who take care of such matters. I must warn you, however, that unlike birds, men are more lenient to the appeal of gold. We must be careful, such messages require the utmost confidence, the utmost care. We cannot let your enemies get hold of any secrets regarding your plans.”

“Do you have any particular person in mind?”

“A few, I will consult with them after noon, your Grace. How many messages are you planning on sending?”

 

Daenerys thought about this for a moment, trying to come up with a list of names. Yara Greyjoy was the first obvious choice, she needed to get in touch with her allies. The Prince of Dorne was the next most logical answer. And then, it all came down to making sure she would send the right message to the right people. Two more names came to her mind. Sansa Stark, for the girl would soon get in touch with her murderer, and would be able to deliver a message to him too, she would be able to make him feel her wrath. The second one was an unsure business. Tyrion Lannister. She was not decided on the matter. What would she even have to tell him? Surely Brandon Stark would have told him everything already. No, she would not write to him.

 

“Three,” she told the First Servant.

“That can easily be arranged,” the priestess answered.

“Very well, I daresay we can conclude today’s meeting. We shall meet again in two days’ time in this very room to discuss further on the matter… Oh, Kinvara? Do you have the dagger I mentioned last night?”

“Not right now, no, but a servant can go and get it. Go, boy, find the blade in my solar.”

 

The servant boy looked at the priestess and nodded quickly, then left the room without saying a word. Daenerys could feel the fire in her guts spread to her limbs, then her neck and mouth. Her tongue was alight, her words desperate to come out.

 

“Your servants,” she told Kinvara with a determination she had been shying away from ever since her rebirth.

“Yes, your Grace?”

“They’re slaves, aren’t they?”

 

Kinvara tensed, blinked a few times and took a few seconds longer than she ought to need in order to answer.

 

“Yes, your Grace, they are. You see, the city of Volantis has not abolished slavery.”

“That will not do.”

 

Daenerys did not wish to make this easy on the priestess, the ‘Flame of Truth’, as she had been called. Kinvara did not answer and eyed her carefully, as if she were unsure as to what the right answer would be.

 

“When I am finished with Westeros, I will come here, and to every Free City in Essos, and liberate the slaves,” she promised.

 

This was not the first time she had uttered the words. How many times had she tried to warn people? How many times had they ignored her before? She could see herself facing her Unsullied and Dothraki as she said the words, a desolate landscape behind them, Drogon roaring to her left. The dark grey sky loomed over them all, everything smelt like burnt flesh and ashes, it sickened her stomach.

 

She gulped heavily, both of her hands coming to the edge of the table to grip it. She tried to steady herself, tried to breathe in, tried to think about anything but the putrid smell of burnt bodies and the dread that wouldn’t leave her. What if her dream from the night before had been true?

 

“Your Grace?” a voice rang, far away from her, a faint echo long forgotten and yet just uttered aloud. She was alone and surrounded all at once, somehow, in this room. She was on another continent, in another life. She was dead and alive again.

 

“ _I am not here to be Queen of the ashes.”_ Words that twisted at her guts, or the opposite, she was no longer sure of anything. The dreadful feeling in her guts might be the one that twisted her words around, a whirlwind of emotions washed over her. She was a shore amidst a storm. The world was made of ashes, the taste of it lingering in her mouth, her hands darkened by charcoal. She was wearing black leather instead of the linen dress she chose to wear a few hours before.

 

She blinked, swallowed hard and breathed out slowly.

 

“Yes?” she tried to sound as composed as she could manage. Her chest was heaving, tears threatened to spill out of her eyes, the grip she had on the table made her fingers hurt, one of her nails digging so hard into the wood it had made a slight crescent-shaped indent.

“Are you quite alright?” Kinvara asked her.

“Yes,” she answered, shaking her head lightly and blinking quickly.

 

No matter how many times she blinked, all she could see were flashes of the past, a vision from above, she had been atop Drogon, streets and roofs and little figurines of toy-like people running through them. They were not real, they were not humans, none of them, just toys, children’s carved dolls, too small to be real. She whimpered, she could hear the pitiful sound even through the screams that echoed around her head.

 

She heard and felt people move around her, and someone came to her. Warmth was now enveloping one of her wrists, making her feel less alone, less terrified. She was tethered by the heat, it made the cold, harsh memories fade into a slight blur.

 

“My Queen, come sit down,” Daario’s unmistakable voice told her. He lead her through the darkness and pushed her lightly down onto a cushioned chair.

 

The room had come back to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the servant boy had come back and was walking around the table to go to Kinvara. Right in front of her, Daario was on his knees, he still had his rough, calloused hand on her wrist, the other was gripping the armchair for support. He was looking at her with a concerned look which bothered her greatly.

 

He was not supposed to care that much. He should not have cared that much about her. She did not want him to love her. Love was unsafe, it meant danger, it meant pain. It meant death. The thought of love terrified her. He would die, or kill her. There was no other way this would end.

 

“He told me,” she mumbled, bending her head to look at her knees, knowing she was crying. “He told me, last night, and I didn’t believe him.”

“You’re alright, you’re alright,” Daario told her, his arms coming to wrap around her back as one of his hands came to rest against her loose hair.

 

He did not seem to care for her worries regarding his love for her, did not seem to notice how badly she wanted him to run away from her. He would have to, in the end, to save either himself or her. They could not both survive.

 

“I saw it all happen, just like he said. That’s why he did it.”

 

He stood up straighter, put both of his hands on her cheeks and cradled her face like he had done the night she had been reborn amidst the salty air of the shores of Volantis and the smoke of the pyre she had awoken onto. Only, it was not his hands she felt on her face, it was another man’s, shorter, broader, rougher. _“You are my Queen. Nothing will change that.”_ She could feel her heart ache at the memory of the words. His breath had smelt of ale, she could remember it, his tongue had grazed against her lips, her teeth, had licked at her own. His hands had wandered down to the front of her dress, hers had clenched at his hips, had yanked at his belt. She had – _no. No_.

 

She exhaled heavily, trying to chase the remnants of hopefulness, of love, of care, of life away.

 

“What did you see? Who was right?” Daario whispered against her ear, as if he did not want Kinvara to hear.

“The reason I was killed,” she answered. Her hands were shaking, her voice nothing but broken lament. “Can we talk about this tonight? I want to forget, for now, I want to pretend.”

“Perhaps you need something to eat? You barely broke your fast,” Daario suggested, anguish clearly tearing at his voice. “It’s almost noon, in any case, we should go and have a meal.”

“Yes, that is wise. Could you bring me a cup of water?”

 

As he stood back up and away from her, her eyes drifted to the rest of the room, trying to find the servant boy. He was long gone, but as she let her gaze down, she saw the one thing in the world that had done more damage to her than anything else.

 

She could see the silver pommel stick out from the edge of the table. Jon Snow’s dagger was resting on top of the large map of Essos and Westeros she had been preparing her plans of attack onto.

 

She stood up, in a trance, barely aware of what she was doing, her knees were still shaking, her head slightly spinning. She did not care, did not have anything to feel. Her mind was only focused on one thing. It was not as small as she had thought it to be. The wound was so narrow she had nearly thought he had killed her with something as common as a knife. But, as slender as the dagger was, it was longer than she had imagined it.

 

She took hold of it, her fingertips tracing their way up the leather handle. The blade still had blood on it. _Hers_ , she reminded herself. It had dried a sordid shade of reddened brown, which made it look more like a stain than the liquid that had pulsed in her veins. She was used to the sight of blood, had seen it more than she had ever wished to see it. But there was something different about seeing it on the weapon that had claimed her life, that had pierced her beating heart.

 

Her index trailed up the small crossguard to reach the edge of the blade, testing its sharpness. What she realized was that it was nothing but a common iron blade. The irony of it all did not escape her. The things she had survived, the people she had survived, the betrayals, the poisons, the arrows, the spears, the dead corpses, the fires, the starvation and thirst, all of those things bested by a common dagger. She wanted to strip it down, break it apart and throw it in the garbage, wanted to throw it into the sea, or into a fireplace. A thousand different fates faced the weapon in her head, and she chose its destiny in an instant as she raised the blade in the air.

 

“This,” she spoke out, loud and clear, raising her eyes to the Flame of Truth and the Commander of the Second Sons that were looking at her in disbelief. “This shall be my crown.”

 

 

Late in the afternoon, after she had written her three letters, her hands stained with ink and aching from the precision and care she had put into each word, each swipe and swirl, Daenerys decided her tasks were complete for the day.

 

She had dinned quite profusely on fruits, bread and meats and was feeling better than she had the same morning. She did not want to think about anything that had come to her, any of her memories. So, she had focused on a dozen different things,

 

She turned away from the desk to grab a handkerchief, trying to wipe away the black smudges on her palms and fingers.

“Tell me about Meereen,” she told the ever present shadow that followed her every move.

“What do you want to know?” Daario wondered, he had spent the last hour looking over some reports from the city, and now that she was finished with her duties, she felt the need to inquire some more.

“Everything. How do the people fare? Have they elected a leader yet? How is trade? Did the olive trees provide a good yield? Have any of the Sons of the Harpy come back? Tell me everything you can.”

“It’s alright now, I suppose. Trade is doing very well, the olive trees gave us more than we expected. The first few turn of the moons after you’d left were complicated, there were a few revolts, some bloodshed. But, we managed, in the end. The first elected leader was assassinated three days after the first election. We’re trying to push for a second one. Then again, the merchants are thriving, the people are well-fed, the Maesters and scribes are thinking about trying to find a way to teach every child in the city how to count and read. I heard communal teachings might be a solution. We would need to organize the proper ways of doing it… There’s so much counting and talking, about everything. So many discussions about possibilities. It’s dreadfully boring, you know. So many meetings that do not involve talking about killing. But, you know, the olive trees need to be talked about, I suppose. Oh, and we are going to be planting citrus trees very soon. At least that’s what I’m told. I’ll be glad to leave for Westeros with you, I miss fighting. Yesterday was the first actual fight I’ve had in moons.”

 

He had said so many different things she was having trouble deciding what to question him about.

 

“Bloodshed?” she resolved on. “How many people died?”

“In total?” he asked her and she nodded quickly. “Well, no more than four hundred.”

 

She dropped the handkerchief from her writhing hands.

 

“Four hundred people?” she shuddered, her voice had grown small and scared.

“We avoided the worst of it, there had been plans of poisoning the water and food supplies. I beheaded the leader personally,” Daario assured her.

“Good,” she decided. “You make for a good leader, you know that?”

“Me? Are you joking?” he scoffed. “They barely tolerate me because you’re not around and they don’t know who else to put in charge yet.”

“And when they’re free to do so, they’ll have you to thank for it.”

 

If she had not known him as well as she did, she would not have detected the hints of pleased embarrassment showing on his face.

 

“We should get ready, I daresay Grey Worm won’t be long now, I’d like to make it a nice official supper.”

“You do need to eat, if you’re planning on being strong enough to fight.”

“We shall start with that once we are in Meereen, this temple is too crowded.”

 

 

 

**Jon III**

 

 

Jon Snow had been in Winterfell for all of an hour before he wished he had never left the wildlings and his makeshift hut.

 

He had arrived at nighttime, most of the castle had already gone to bed, he’d gone to the kitchens for a warm bowl of soup and had then quickly left to retire to his chambers, only to realize his mistake.

 

“These are my quarters, now,” his sister’s voice told him from behind as he was about to open the door.

 

He startled, let go of the handle in a hurry and turned to face her. She was wearing a crown, which surprised him. He’d never done that, when he’d been the King. He supposed she was not as reluctant on the matter though, and the pride he could see on her features was a good indicator of their differences regarding the pleasures of ruling.

 

“Oh,” he breathed out. “Had not realized, sorry.”

“It’s alright. You should go in, anyway, we should talk.”

 

The room had not changed much, she had only changed the furs on the bed and had put up vases of flowers on the desks and tables.

 

“What did you want to talk about?” he started as soon as she’s closed her chambers’ door. He did not want to draw this out for longer than necessary.

“You know what,” she answered as she went to sit on an armchair near the fireplace. “Have a seat.”

 

He sighed, trying to find the right words, the ones that would make her stop talking, the ones that would mean he would be free to go and die in peace.

 

“She’s alive,” Sansa told him. He felt his guts clench and his heart constrict so hard he thought he might just die from hearing the words said aloud.

“I know.”

“Is that all you have to say?” she huffed irritably.

“Aye it is.”

“Don’t be like that. Don’t be stubborn.”

“What do you want me to say? What am I supposed to do? I don’t have an army. I don’t have a dragon. If she wants you dead, I can’t help you,” he shrugged apathetically.

“Well, do _something_ , at least! Bran asked for your help, you should go to King’s Landing. It’s your problem and you know it! You can’t just go and hide beyond the wall! You should never have even left Castle Black in the first place!”

“My problem?” he snapped.

“You know it is! You brought her here. You bent the knee to her. You’re the reason everything went wrong!”

 

He paused, looked at her with a look of utter disgust.

 

“She’s the reason you have Kingdom to defend in the first place! Had I not gone to Dragonstone...”

 

She opened her mouth, ready to counterattack.

 

“No, no, let me finish. If I had not gone, we would not have had the means of defending the castle, we would not have had two dragons, two armies and a mountain of Dragonglass. Do not try to twist this around. How do you think Arya even got the chance to get to him in the first place? Gods, Sansa…”

She did not answer. He wanted her to defend herself, to say something, to apologize. He wanted her to tell him to leave.

 

“Sometimes, I wonder what father might think of me,” he continued, when it was clear she could not. He was consumed. Shame, guilt and fear eating at his bones, at his flesh, at his soul. He was burning cold, simmering into nothingness. He would cease to be soon enough.

“Which one?” Sansa asked him. A harsh truth. Ned Stark was not even his father, in the end, but Jon could not help but refer to him as such.

“You know the one... It actually does not matter, does it? I think the other one might hate me all the same. If not more so than father. I killed his sister, didn't I? Ended his bloodline. I ruined everything for him. And father, father he...” he was unable to finish the sentence.

“I think he would be proud,” his sister assured him, one of her hands coming to grab his own, he tore away immediately. It did not stop her from leaning forward. “Listen, I’m sorry for earlier. You saved us all, in the end. You killed a monster. Even if she got –”

 

The word made his guts clench so hard he felt as if he had been stabbed all over again. He nearly left the room, nearly ran back to the Wall.

 

“Don't say that. Don't. I didn't save anyone,” he growled as he got up from his seat.

“Do you think I would be here? Do you think I would be Queen if you had not done it?”

 

She was calmer than he wanted her to be, he wanted her to scream, so that he would get an excuse to yell and throw things. He wanted to be able to get rid of all this frustration and anger that ate at his guts.

 

“You say that as if it matters. It doesn't. Who cares about kingdoms and thrones and titles? D’you think being Queen erases everything? You think the blood on my hands isn't on yours as well?” he spat, disgusted by her words. It was not really a question, and she knew it, judging by the anger he could see in her eyes. Good. He let out a raged breath and looked away from her.

 

“Father would hate us all,” he half-whispered to the walls, the words not really meant for her.

 

She recoiled in her seat, as if he'd slapped her, hurt her somehow.

 

“Don’t you dare. You do not get to talk to me this way. You might not like it, but I am your Queen.”

“Are you? Does the Wall belong to you, now? Have you arranged the logistics of it all with Bran?”

 

She looked taken aback by his question, as if it was not something she had thought of.

 

“I do not need to discuss this with Bran, the Wall is a part of the North.”

“Is it? Did you confirm with him?”

 

She did not answer.

 

“You know, I can't forgive you for what you did,” he told her, changing the subject. He was not done with his anger. “Father would not either. Making a vow in front of a Weirwood tree is a sacred thing, Sansa.”

“I did it for you! I did it to protect you! To protect our family!” she stood up too, now, and pointed an angry finger at his face.

“Did you? Doesn't matter. We're both oathbreakers. How he must hate us now. Him and his honor. I'm no better than Jaime Lannister. Can you imagine that? Father finding out he lied to protect me for so long and I turned out to be just the same as the one man he loathed more than anything. Can you imagine it?”

 

He was breathing hard, his eyes were prickling, taunting him. He closed them harshly for a second, trying to get them to behave. Sansa did not answer.

 

“I’m worse than him, he did not kill the woman he loved.”

“She’s alive, Jon,” she told him again, the words were not meant to reassure him.

“I know that. I still killed her.”

“You will have to do it again, you are probably the only one who can do it.”

 

He took a couple of steps backwards, and would have taken a few more, if not for the stony wall that was now coldly pressing at his back, he could feel the cold wind seep through the glass window on his left.

 

“I will not!” he barked, his words barely intelligible in his anger, shaking his head in disbilief, his hands were clenching tightly onto themselves, the hard, worn-down leather of his gloves crinkling under his fingernails. He felt the way his mouth was stuck in a bitter scowl, the way his brows lowered into his eyelids.

 

He must have been quite a sight, because Sansa had the decency to back away from him.

 

“You must,” she urged him as she continued to walk away. Only he understood this was not out of fear, she had a clear destination in mind.

“I have something to show you,” she continued as he glared in silence. “I received a letter from her two days ago.”

 

He gasped at this, felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, all the air had been expelled brutally from his freezing lungs. He would never know warmth again, never have the pleasure of letting his skin rest in the warm sun. He would die before Spring was set to come again.

 

“A letter? She wrote to you?” he breathed out, all traces of anger had vanished from him along with his breath. Why hadn’t she written to _him_ instead?

“Here,” his sister told him, fumbling under the furs of her bed to grab a yellowed piece of parchment out of which he could see something black poking out. He paid no mind to the strange object and grabbed the letter from Sansa’s hands so quickly he thought he almost ripped it in half. A thick, black string of leather fell from it as he opened the parchment. He did not care.

 

Her handwriting was elegant, the letters elongated and looped with precision. It was her, there was no mistaking it, he had never seen her handwriting before, but he knew that those had been written by her. And the words she wrote… He felt ill, he kept looking at the words. It was her. She was alive. She wanted him dead.

 

“ _I have been informed that your brother is coming back down to Winterfell and have thus left a little present from me to him, do give it to him as soon as he gets back, I am sure he misses the blood-soaked weapon that was attached to the piece of leather I have sent him.”_

 

He looked down at his feet in utter shock, bent down to touch it, grabbed it and fell to his knees, incapable of standing back up.

 

“ _I do regret to inform him that he will not retrieve the blade, as I have chosen to melt it down. You see, I am quite sure it will look much better poised on my head as a crown than it ever did lodged betwixt my ribs. Please make sure to let him know that he will get to have one last look at it before I pay him back. A life for a life.”_

 

Betwixt her ribs. Betwixt her ribs. A life for a life. Pay him back. She would make it into a crown, of course she would. One last look at the blade.

 

His heart was pounding. His hands were shaking so hard the words looked more like a messy blur than anything else.

 

“She knows things that I can’t fathom she ought to know,” Sansa told him, she had walked closer. He was not done reading the letter and did not raise his eyes to her. Her words faded into oblivion. He knew she was still talking, but could not focus on her words when the ones he was reading were proof.

 

She talked about Dorne and the Iron Islands. She talked about claiming the Kingdoms back. That was to be expected, he thought. She talked about Sansa’s betrayal. That, too, was to be expected.

 

Then came her list of titles, a new one had joined the ranks of the long list of names she had earned. “ _the Reborn_ ”. He wondered how she must have felt when she awoke. Did she gasp in the air? Did she still feel the blade like he had done Olly’s?

 

Lodged betwixt her ribs. Her ribs. He wanted to bury himself into the ground, right now. He wanted someone to come stab him in the back, or to torture him. Be done with it, already.

 

“ _PS: Do let your brother know that waterfalls do not make good resting ground and that his cowardice in the matter of his own death is duly noted.”_

 

He laughed at that, a humourless and cold shadow of what his laugh used to be. Cowardice.

 

“Do you plan on ending your own life?” Sansa asked him.

 

How did she know? How could she know about the waterfalls? Who had informed Da – _‘Don’t call me that’_ – The Queen?

 

“How?” he croaked out aloud.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you mean this is way too long and I can't contain myself? 
> 
> Alright, here's a quick poll because I'm conflicted! Would you rather have a Yara POV or a Tyrion POV in the next chapter? 
> 
> Just saying that this was supposed to be a Tyrion POV chapter but erm, Jon had things to say and I couldn't focus on anything else.


	8. The Warmth of the Sun

**Chapter 8: The Warmth of the Sun.**

 

 

The road to Meereen had been quick enough, the journey pleasant enough. She had ridden atop Drogon into the city and had landed on top of the greatest Pyramid as gracefully as the size of her dragon had allowed it.

 

She had gotten onto the stony balcony where she had landed once before, when the city had been assaulted and she had come to rescue it. Everything had been different this time. Below her, a huge crowd of people had gathered at the foot of the pyramid to cheer and cry her name. They did so for so long she could still hear the echoes of their screams whenever her surroundings got too quiet. This had been such a warm welcoming present she still felt a warm, bubbling sensation deep in her stomach at the thought of it. Her people loved her, here, no matter what. The former slaves were now just people living their own chosen lives, earning money, making friends, lovers, and having children that would never know what servitude meant. They would all learn to read, write and count, she had sworn this to herself as she had seen the crowd.. They would all be fed decently, all have roofs over their heads and clothes on their backs. This was as close to perfection as anything could ever hope to be.

 

But, everything was not perfect, although she dearly wished she could just concentrate on the love she and her people shared for each other. She had been in the city for half a moon, now, and was growing irritated at the lack of news regarding her bloodriders and the Unsullied that had been sent both to Qohor and to look for them. The harpies were still lurking deep in the shadows, no matter what, and would probably never stop trying to take back the city.

 

And, worst of all, she never spent a single night without dreaming of what she had done to King’s Landing. She could not understand it, even now, even after an entire week spent mulling over the events, moping and brooding endlessly.

 

The only thing that kept her mind off of this were her fighting lessons with Daario.

 

He’d been too gentle with her at first, he was afraid to hurt her, afraid that she would not be able to handle the pain of falling on her arse, or that a bruise to her sides would somehow mean she would be dead all over again.

 

She knew it, she knew why he struggled with actually teaching her how to swing a sword properly, but she had to learn. And so she had to push him into teaching her.

 

She kept bothering him with pointless questions at all times – ‘why should I have my right foot ahead and not my left?’ ‘ why do I put my index right there on the handle?’ ‘what’s the point of that? What’s it called again?’ – kept her sparing sword at her hip, more so to remind him whenever he saw her than for her to get used to it. But she liked the weight against her thigh, liked feeling the leather belt and sheath rest against her worn-out breeches.

 

She knew would have to get proper dresses made for her again, she thought, all of her belongings were on Dragonstone, or thrown to the sewers of King’s Landing by her former Lord Hand. All she had now was one or two night slips or riding clothes she had left behind in Meereen before going to Westeros. But, she thought of having to do it without Missandei being there made her feel nauseous. They had always had meetings with the dress-makers together, had often wanted the same types of gowns. So, she postponed the inevitable.

  
She did not want to wear the dresses from the Red Temple, either, even if she knew Kinvara had had a couple of them made especially for her. But she did not feel comfortable wearing clothes that had been made by slaves, the thought of it made her skin itch with the desire to rip off the garments.

 

She had asked Yara to bring her the chest she had left behind on Dragonstone, but knew that it would take her weeks upon weeks to get here. So, for now, she made do with Dothraki breeches and tunics she’d borrowed from the servants, who insisted she could keep them even though she dearly wished to pay them back. And, she was used to Dothraki breaches, liked the comfort of not having to wear a corset, of being free from the weight of thick woollen dresses and heavy furs. She had no need for any of this under the warmth of the Meereenese sun.

 

Thankfully for her, she would have other garments to wear fairly quickly. Since, on their fifth class together, Daario brought her a boiled leather brigandine and matching pauldrons as a gift.

 

“I’ve got them from the black-smith who made mine, he’s very good, although he says it’s the first time he’s made one for a woman.”

“Is that why it looks like it’s been made for a man?” she nodded in the armour’s direction.

“I could tell him to come take your measurements, you know, until Grey Worm comes back from Qohor with the best black-smith in the world.”

 

She nodded and stayed silent as he came towards her and helped her put on the heavy leather brigandine and pauldrons.

 

“There,” he told her as he was fastening the second pauldron over her right shoulder. The pieces were too big for her small stature, and he had to pull the leather strings as tight as possible to make sure nothing would slip off of her. “It might not be much protection, but it’s already better than nothing.”

“Are you going to actually try to teach me now, then?” she asked him, turning around to face him, petulant and unstoppable in her attempts.

“I have been teaching you, you’re just not interested in the theoretical aspect of learning,” he sighed, kissing her temple as she pushed him away with a huff.

“I’m not here to learn the names of all the parts of an armour nor the types of blades. I just want to learn how to fight.”

 

He had the nerve to laugh, to smirk proudly, as if this was what he expected of her.

 

“What? You know I’m going to have you on your arse one of these days, you’ll be the one with a bruised blue bottom.”

“Fine, then, let’s try it out, shall we?” he snorted and rolled his eyes at her. “If you want to pretend you don’t need to be taught properly, we’ll do it your way.”

 

He was growing irritated with her. Good, she thought. This was what she wanted.

 

“Go on, get in position.”

 

He walked a few feet away from her, raised his sword mid-air and waited for her to do the same. She turned to face him, unsheathing her sparring sword and placing her right food ahead of her, trying to remember the right position her hand should have on the sword’s handle.

 

‘ _Your index is right under the crossguard, your thumb at the top of the handle, not down by the pommel. Here, like this. Your hand is at an angle to the sword, keep it relaxed, no, not like that, you’ll break your wrist. Never bend your wrist, that’s how you’ll break it. Always keep it straight,’_ he’d told her the last time.

 

She tried to emulate what her mind remembered.

 

“Ready?” he asked her. She nodded, gulping hard.

 

She stroke first, that’s what he had taught her, stepping right and raising her sword to hit him in the gorget before he could struck against her. He was a foot taller than her, which made the manner of her attack slightly awkward, but she expected that it would be the same with most men she would have to fight.

 

She smiled at him proudly before he counter-attacked, hitting her sword at the crossguard, the painful vibrations reverberating in her hands and arms.

 

“Ow, that actually hurts!” she complained as she stepped away from him and took one of her hands off the handle of the sword to shake off the sensation.

 

“You’ll get used to it,” he quipped, before raising one of his arms to strike her. She needed both of her arms to use her sword, and she knew he only needed one, but used both anyway.

 

She had not been ready for an attack, and barely avoided his blow, shifting to her left dramatically the point where she barely kept her equilibrium before she made to strike him back. This time she aimed at the side of his stomach, a move he had not taught her yet, where his still raised arm couldn’t protect him. She saw a flinch of pain on his face that went away as quickly as it had come. He mostly looked surprised by the sudden blow, and his raised brow was all the approval she needed.

 

He backed away from her before he struck again, this time hitting her right on the pauldron, she thought the movement deliberate. He could have easily hit her on the arm or the neck, where she was unprotected.

 

She swung her sword right at his thigh, where she knew he was not expecting her, and was not wearing any armour. A low blow. She wanted him to know she was ready to fight beyond the safe confines of their lessons. She knew a real adversary would not limit themselves to conventional blows and strikes.

 

She knew she had to be smarter than that. She had had to be smarter than every single one of her opponents before, and had mostly succeeded in avoiding their figurative – or not – blows. Up until the last one, that was. She had been too blinded by love for that. But that would never happen again. She would not let her love for Jon Snow impede her in her attacks, her strikes, her blows, ever again.

 

He deftly averted her sword, nearly jerking it out of her hands in the process. He then made to strike at her again, only this time she jumped back, and he swung at the air instead of her body.

 

“You’re getting better at this,” he uttered, halfway out of breath with laughter and exertion.

“Or maybe you’ve been too afraid to know what I’m capable of,” she answered him smugly.

 

Except she did not stay smug for long, because, before she knew it, she was falling to the ground with a thud.

 

She saw his hand before she could see his face, he was extending it to her to help her up. She took it with a sigh of surrender before he pulled her up and against him.

 

“I’m sorry about your bruised bottom,” he told her slyly.

“You’re an arse,” Daenerys answered him, making him laugh as he bent down to kiss her.

 

It felt both terribly right and terribly wrong all at once, somehow, to be that way with him again. To let him try to make her happy again. She craved the warmth of his sun-kissed skin as much as she feared it, feared the cold emptiness that would inevitably follow.

 

She still loved _him_ , the other him, she knew that she did. The pain in her chest at the thought of his name was proof of it. And yet, she could not envision herself being with him again. Not after what he had done, not after what _she_ had done. She wanted to, though, wanted to thread her fingers through his curls, wanted her nails to scratch at his skin softly as she held his hand, and to hear him laugh, wanted to hear the rhythm of his breathing at night, wanted to feel his weight on hers, to lick at the wounds on his chest… There was so much she wanted, so much she would never have again. He was not here, he was not, she told herself firmly, even if she dreamed of him at night. He was not with her. He was her enemy, now, as much as it pained her to admit it. She wanted him to be her lover again, to forget everything that had happened since she had first laid eyes on Winterfell. She had been so happy before then.

 

She would have to content herself with terribly right and terribly wrong, she thought, as Daario tilted her face to kiss her jaw. She sighed, both at the sensation and the resignation that took over her mind. She wrapped both of her hands around his shoulders, as he had done with her waist, but her sparring sword was too heavy, and she had to let her left hand glide down against his back and then his hip to try and find the best way to discard of the weighty weapon without having to step away from Daario’s embrace. His hands were digging greedily at her hips when she heard someone clear their throat.

 

“Your Grace,” a servant interrupted from behind Daario. She had not heard him come in.

“Yes?” she asserted with as much dignity and pride as she could, walking away from Daario as he sighed in frustration.

“We have received news from the Unsullied, Your Grace, a raven came for you.”

 

 

 

**Yara**

 

 

 

She had not been on the Iron Islands for more than a week when she set sail North again. And then South. And then North again, this time with a clearer purpose, and on the other side of the continent. She was not heading for a common raid, she was not heading towards some poor villagers’ small, rundown huts. No, this time, Yara was prepared for a real battle. The peasants had been nothing more than a passing distraction. There had not really been a fight, not one that mattered anyway. The coastal villages that she and her crewmen had plundered had been filled with starving, old tired smallfolks. Some of them still licking their wounds from the War for the Dawn, as it had once been called. Their food stocks had been lower than she had expected them to be. She only ever understood why after she had asked one of the injured men that was lying on the ground at her feet. “The Queen got our grain in ‘er castle. Took it before the war,” he’d told her. She had not had much to steal, but stole all that was left anyway. She did not feel guilty. She felt enraged, invigorated at the prospect of revenge. What the smallfolk lacked in grains and fighting abilities, they made up for in fish and meats, which made the raids for the trips, at the very least.

 

Then, she had left half her army to continue their pillaging whilst she took the other half and headed South, where Quentyn Martell awaited her in Dorne. They had been exchanging a few ravens and he had generously invited her to visit him in Sunspear. She knew that his invitation was his agreement for treason, just as he had known that her first raven to him had meant more than what she had written. He had not been foolish, he had just been calmly calculating. She appreciated his demeanour, he would make for a better ally than she had thought.

 

Dorne had been quite pleasant, if not too warm and dry for her taste. The burning sun had left her skin slightly burnt pink after three days, but the good-looking maid that had soothed her skin with aloe leaves had made the pain worth it.

 

Prince Quentyn could perhaps be considered as a strange fellow, she thought, although she did not mind it much. It made him interesting enough, and he and his sister, Princess Arianne were in agreement with her. They’d even gone as far as to suggest trying to get in contact with other Lords and Ladies across the continent, on one particular evening, after supper. Yara had drunk a bit more than she had planned to, and had been quite enthusiastic in regards to their plans.

 

“Surely, the Reach won’t want to keep that court jester as Lord Paramount, will they? They’re just as sworn to the late Queen as we are,” he had indicated. “They were sacked by the Lannister army not too long ago, and from what I know of their new Lord, he was appointed by Tyrion Lannister.”

“Of course he is,” Yara had scoffed and tutted her tongue, and had then taken another sip of wine.

“A Lannister-Stark alliance is not good for anyone,” Arianne had declared. “The Lannisters cannot be trusted, they have taken far too much from us. And the Starks… I had heard stories about their nobility, about how good Ned Stark was… But these people cannot be trusted. They conspired against the Queen, killed her and then made themselves the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms... How can the High Lords and Ladies stay quiet?”

“They won’t have to stay quiet if we let them have a voice,” Quentyn had replied, grabbing a single grape and popping it in his mouth.

“Well, cheers to that!” Yara had celebrated, finishing her cup in one gulp before putting it down with a clanking thud.

 

Prince Quentyn had eyed her with a hint of judgement, but she did not care much for his opinion when the Princess was right there and was smiling at her.

 

“I don’t even know the name of that new Lord of the Reach. Why are there so many new Lords anyway? Where are they getting them from? Who’s even in charge of the Westerlands these days? Is it the Lannister one?” she’d grumbled.

“It must be Tyrion Lannister, but his hold on Casterly Rock is shaky at best, he cannot fully serve as Lord Paramount and as Hand of the King, and I do not think the Lords respect him much. A dwarf, as their High Lord? Most of the Lords and the common folks won’t like it.”

“Aye, I daresay they wouldn’t,” Yara had agreed, getting up from her seat to fill up her cup. “T’was hard enough for me as a woman, can’t say the Westerosi are too fond of change…”

“No, they do not have our propensity to be visionaries, as much as it pains me to say,” Prince Quentyn half-drawled. “Edmund Tully did not look too pleased either,” he had continued, grabbing another grape and examining it between his thumb and his forefinger for a moment.

“I’m working on that, I sent him a raven before I left Pyke, told him his cousin was about to ask the Vale to cross his borders to send their armies to the North.”

“Ha!” Arianne had exclaimed, and Yara had turned around midway to the wooden cart where the glass bottles and metallic jugs were gathered to see the mirth splitting the princess’ face in a dazzling grin. “That was brilliant of you!” Yara had swallowed thickly and had tried to grin as confidently as she could.

“Thank you, Princess Arianne…” she had paused at this, holding onto her cup for comfort. “And what about that young fellow from the trial? The one with the short beard? Isn’t he a Baratheon, now? How did tha’ even happen?” she had asked as she had poured herself some wine, splashing some onto the wooden platter.

“Gendry Baratheon. Formerly a Waters, or a River, something like that. Apparently a legitimized bastard of Robert,” Quentyn observed as Yara bunglingly put down the jug of wine and turned away from the drink cart to face them both.

“Legitimized by Daenerys Targaryen,” Prince Quentyn had noted with raised brows.

“Was he now? That’s interesting to say the least,” Yara had answered, looking at the both of them. That might be very valuable information indeed. “So, he must at least appreciate what she did for him, must he not?” she had continued.

“It might be worth asking him what he thinks on the matter of his new King, yes,” Princess Arianne had agreed with her, it had made Yara behind her cup as she had taken a sip of wine.

“Good,” Quentyn had approved, although he had not looked very happy about the situation. “They are trying to make sure no one will revolt by appointing their own men as Lord Paramounts all over the continent. We cannot let this happen. I will call my banners to join forces with you. You have my word on this, Queen Yara, we will never let them take our Kingdoms from us. They do not have the men to defend the Crown, I shall attack from the South at a word’s notice. They have split the Kingdoms between a Stark King and a Stark Queen and thought we would not care? I have to say they have been bold and brazen with the whole ordeal.”

“Aye, they have. That or they’ve just been stupid. I’ll let you choose.”

 

This had made the pretty Princess laugh heartily. Yara had winked at her and had helped herself to her cup of Dornish wine again as she had come to sit back down in front of Arianne. If it had not been for the unbearable temperatures and the assailing sun, Yara would have considered living here for the rest of her life. The wine was excellent, the people more pleasant and liberated in their customs, the food tastier than the one she had been used to. It had been a very good and interesting stay, and she was looking forward to coming back to Sunspear to meet with them again.

 

Her departure from the South had definitely come too quickly, Yara thought, but had been necessary. She had informed her new, _charming_ , allies of her desires to come after the Vale’s armies. Prince Quentyn told her he was planning on sending ravens to some of the Lords that were more likely to be _‘_ inclined’ to their cause in the Reach, Storm’s End and in Riverrun, since Edmund Tully seemed to have some ‘grievances’ with his extended family.

 

Yara was not as enthused by the political aspect of it all as Quentyn Martell seemed to be, she wanted to fight, it was a part of the grieving process. For her brother, and for her Queen, she told herself, she had to it all for them. She had not known Queen Daenerys for long, but she had been a beacon of hope in this dark, hopeless wasteland. She had been strong and smart and someone Yara could definitely respect. These _Lords_ were not. This strange _King_ and this cold _Queen_ were definitely not. The titles disgusted her. These people were schemers, players, liars. Yara thought them the lowest of the lows.

  
And so, when the Vale ships had appeared in her line of sight, Yara had smiled, because she had known that she would win. They had not expected her or her crewmen, had not imagined that the Iron Fleet would come all the way around Westeros to attack them. Their ships had not been ready for battle either, as it turned out. She knew they were not used to the sea, and it had been blatantly obvious that the Valemen were weakened by the strength of the tides and the rocking of their ships. It had not been the fight that Yara had wanted it to be, but it had been better than fighting the starving smallfolks of the North.

 

She had let a few ships get away, she had been there to send a message, not to obliterate their army. She had chosen one soldier to tell him to deliver a message to his Lord, and to the Stark who called herself Queen. “Tell them that this is only the beginning, that the Iron Islands and Dorne have not forgotten and that we never will. Tell them that this is for Queen Daenerys, that this is for Theon Greyjoy. Tell them, boy, tell them! Do you hear me?”

 

He had whined and sputtered out a shaky “y-yes!” and she’d thrown him to the sea. “Better swim fast, boy, don’t let the kraken catch ya!”

 

It felt good to have a purpose, to have something to do, people to hate. It made it all easier than grieving in silence ever would. It was grief she felt as she slashed her sword through a man’s throat or another man’s shoulder or leg or guts… The body parts did not matter, grief and joy and purpose mingled in her as the blood spilled out of their skins and flew into the air and onto the creaking planks of the sinking Vale ships. The attack had been swift and easy, she had captured a few soldiers to let her crewmen have their fun with them, and their screams had rang through the ships for nearly a fortnight before someone had decided to put them out of their misery.

 

And then, she had gone back down to Dragonstone to let her men rest before she was set to travel around the continent once more to head back home. Or so she had thought.

 

For that was when the letter arrived. She almost had the messenger killed on the spot, when he turned up on the beach, one grey morning, but he had sworn to her that the message was very important. And when Yara had taken a look at the wax seal, she could scarcely believe her eyes. She had huffed at the impropriety. ‘House Targaryen is dead, how could someone even have the audacity to send me a letter with such a seal?’ she’d told the messenger.

 

But, as soon as Yara had opened the thick, yellow parchment, she had known that this was no jest, no cruel trick, no mummer’s game.

 

“ _My dear Queen Yara of the Iron Islands, first of her name, Queen of Salt and Rock, Daughter of the Sea Wind and Lady Reaper of Pyke,_

_I am sorry to have to start this letter with my condolences regarding the death of your beloved brother, I know how fond you were of him and he of you. I am told he died honourably, and I know that this must make you proud of him. He was, to his last breath, a true Ironborn._

_I, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, am writing to you from the Red Temple in Volantis, although I am planning on leaving at the end of the week to go back to Meereen, where we first met. I know you have been told I am dead, but, and although this was indeed true for a short period of time, it appears that the Lord of Light has decided that this was not to be my fate, at least not quite yet. I know this must come as a surprise, or that you must think it a lie, but I am quite intent on proving to you that I am indeed who I say I am. For, after all, what is dead may never die, Yara Greyjoy._

_When we met in the Greatest Pyramid of Meereen, I do remember you were wearing your brown amour and I a black gown draped over one shoulder. We discussed our fathers, your uncle, his offer to ‘marry’ me and then our possible alliance. I remember you telling me this: ‘I’d never demand, but I’m up for anything, really.’ And perhaps I ought to have accepted this offer, now that I come to think of it. You would certainly make for an interesting co-regent._

_Queen Yara, I’m not_ demanding _that you sail to Meereen to join me so that we shall take our revenge together, but… I am, indeed, up to anything in that matter. And who’s to say, since I have not had a good offer in a while, you might just have a chance this time regarding your and my matrimonial statuses._

_I have been told you have been attacking the Northern coasts and the Vale in my name. I do remember telling you that I would not allow any further ‘reaving, roving, raiding, or raping’ and although I must admit I am still quite intransigent on the raping part of the deal, I greatly admire your efforts in avenging me. I feel such devotion and trustworthiness ought to be rewarded greatly and invite you to ask me for anything you might want that I might be able to give you._

_In the meantime, I will ask this of you: join me in Meereen, Queen Yara, for it would be my pleasure to fight alongside you in this war. I will be writing a letter to your new allies in Dorne as soon as I am finished with this letter and will be inviting them to meet with me as well. I must insist that if you are to contact me, you do so with the utmost care, for I do not want unwanted attention to be brought to my shores just now._

 

_Your dear friend and ally, Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, The Reborn, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons_

 

_PS: If you have, by some happenstance, found your way around the castle to my chambers, please do try and bring me the black trunk filled with clothes that rests by the wall that faces the door._

 

Yara had laughed and beamed and rejoiced as she had gathered her men around her.

 

“Prepare your ships,” she’d asserted with a fierce grin that would not leave her face. “We sail at dawn for Meereen!”

 

They would have time to rest later, she thought to herself. Her Queen awaited her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, Yara won out in the comments. For those of you who wanted a Tyrion POV, don't worry, he'll get it in the next chapter! :)  
> Thank you all for your lovely comments, by the way, you're gems, the whole lot of you! I never expected so many people to read this and I'm so happy you love the story as much as I do!


	9. The Maids and the Trees

**Chapter 9: The Maids and the Trees**

 

 

“When are they due?” Daario asked her tensely.

“The message doesn’t say,” she sighed as she put down the rolled up piece of parchment on the table at the centre of her bedchambers.

 

She remembered Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan and Missandei being there with her in this room. She had been happy then, she had not known how truly hopeless life could be, before everything happened. This place was full to the brim with fond memories that hurt bitterly whenever one came to mind.

 

“But they are on their way back, right?”

“Yes, they’ve found part of the Horde, and although Grey Worm says they’ve started dividing it between Khals, they’re not all too far apart yet. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks for them to come back, I think. He says he’s found a good blacksmith, in Qohor.”

“Good, you need to best armour in the world. I won’t let you die again.”

 

She let out a little laugh at that and rolled her eyes at him.

 

“Do you really think you can stop me from ever dying?”

“I can try.”

 

He was being naive, she thought as she stared at him in silence. Naive and stubborn. She had been that way too, before. Hopeful, naive, alive. It was difficult to think herself alive, even now. Even after having been reborn for nearly a moon, now. He had been so much more careful with her, so much more caring. It was terrifying to see him like this. He had seen her dead body, her mind reminded her, the image must have been quite haunting, she figured. She was still haunted with the sight of Missandei and Jorah’s deaths. She could see it all over again.

 

She was lonely, without Daario. He was the only person aside from Kinvara that she really knew in Meereen. Her friends were dead or had betrayed her. He was the only person she could really trust anymore, without Grey Worm.

 

And it would stay the same for another two weeks. Daario taught her new tactics and strikes, she called for a seamstress at last, Kinvara led her followers to the streets of Meereen where she would often have hundreds of people listening to her sermons. She had not heard a word from Grey Worm any of her allies in Westeros. Yara Greyjoy had not answered her letter and neither had Quentyn Martell. It was jarring, it was irritating, it made her feel incredibly alone.

 

Worst of all, Drogon was gone again, and she knew not where he had gone. But he was gone more often than not, he left at sea, and always came back with a huge sea creature he had hunted down. Daenerys did not know whether the monsters were for him or were a gift for her, he often left them mostly untouched and unburnt before she could come and see him. He ate in front of her, sometimes, burnt the dead carcasses to a crisp, charred, black mass which he swallowed in thick chunks of flaked flesh. The smell often made it hard for her to stay with him for long.

 

She wanted to go and wander alongside her own people, wanted to have people to talk to, wanted to be loved as much as she wanted to love. But it was not safe, she reminded herself. Not with the Sons of the Harpies steel lurking in the shadows of her city.

 

So, Daenerys talked to her servants instead, to the handmaidens that came to brush her hair or to help her get dressed and washed. One of them was barely fourteen, she learnt as the girl tried to fashion her hair in a neat knot atop her head. Her name was Elazza, the girl had told her timidly, and she had been chosen to replace her sister, who had been one of the four hundred who died after Daenerys had left.

 

“I’m so sorry, sweet thing,” Daenerys apologized to the girl, taking one of her hands in hers. She knew her apology meant little now, and that it was too late to change anything, but she could see the pain in the girl’s face, even though she seemed to know how to hide it well.

“It’s alright, your Grace, it’s been five moons now.”

 

Her voice was quiet and strained with restraint. Daenerys could see the girl’s eyes well up, and gripped on her hand tighter as she kept her own eyes fixated on the girl’s face, trying to search for the truth. Perhaps she ought not to, Daenerys thought to herself. Perhaps she ought to let the matter go, to let the girl have her pain stay hidden, have her own grief. But she felt obligated to help her. She was her Queen, although she surely would not be so for very long.

 

“Tell me what I can do, Elazza. Do your parents fare well? Are you in need of anything?”

 

The girl locked eyes with her and shook her head silently, before letting out a small whimper, she turned her head to look out the window. She opened her mouth but shook her head and started crying, fat droplets of water falling onto her youthful, plump, bronzed cheeks.

 

“I wouldn’t ask, I can’t, it’s not proper, your Grace,” she breathed out, shaking her head and taking away the hand Daenerys had been holding onto to wipe the wetness off her face.

“You can ask for anything you’d like, dear, I am in debt to your family, truly. I am so sorry for what happened to your sister. I wish I hadn’t gone to Westeros, I wish I had stayed there to protect you all.”

“We can’t always protect the ones we love, your Grace. We know, all of us in Meereen, we know you love us,” she told Daenerys with the tiniest of smile. She looked like a child, then, so young and sweet.

“Love isn’t always enough,” Daenerys sighed. “You have to prove it. Tell me. Tell me what you need and I will give it to you.”

“My…” she began and paused to bite at her bottom lip. “My father, he can’t work his old job any more. His back and his knees hurt too much. He was a builder, but he’s getting old, you see, and I’m his only child left. My mother, she tries so hard, she sells soaps on the market, they’re very good... But she doesn’t sell much of it…”

 

The poor girl sounded disappointed and refused to stare at Daenerys directly, she was too nervous and too shy to ask for what she really wanted.

 

“Do you wish for gold, my sweet?” Daenerys asked, cocking her head to the side, trying to understand where the girl’s story was leading to.

“No, no your Grace. I would never ask for such a thing. I was wondering, if, maybe... you would consider taking my father… to work in the Pyramid? I –”

“That’s it?” Daenerys interrupted her with a sad smile. “I could give you so much more, your father would never have to work another day. Have him sent to a healer for me, I will pay for all his needs, we will see, then if he wants to work. Then, tell your mother that she is to send us all the soap she can sell, I will buy it. I need more soap, in any case.”

 

The grin that shone on the sweet handmaid’s face was the best thing to have happened to Daenerys in her life, it seemed to her. She felt such warmth enveloping her from the inside out it was hard to contain it. A week passed, after this, and Daenerys kept her promises, and the scent of young Elazza’s mother’s soaps – a mixture of citrus and olive oil – soothed her senses anytime she bathed. It made her happy to make someone else happy. The girl’s father had seen a healer twice, and the ointments he had been prescribed seemed to work well for his back, the handmaid told her as she wash brushing her hair. She smiled more often, and Daenerys relished these moments with a fervour that surprised her.

 

She reminded her of Missandei, sometimes, her sweet voice and brightness akin to that of her old friend and advisor. It was lonely, being here without Missandei. But her handmaids were good-hearted and kind, and kept her company. She ate her supper with them twice, in her solar. They had dined on the floor and had drunk Dornish wine as they had told each other stories about their friends, lives and lovers. Daenerys had laughed and had tried as hard as she could to stop herself from thinking about the man whose name made her entire body ache with grief and bitterness. And the next day, as she had received her people in the throne room to listen to their complaints and needs, she had not once thought about him. She had been too preoccupied with her people’s concerns to focus on her own.

 

She was not alone, here, in Meereen. She was with her people. The only ones missing from her were the Unsullied squadron that had been sent out to Qohor and her Dothraki horde. Fortunately for her, after nearly an entire moon without any news from anyone or anything, a messenger came back to Daenerys with news about her Dothraki and the Unsullied.

 

“They’ll be here in two days, Daario! He succeeded! They’re all coming here! Daario!” she screamed excitedly one morning, running up to the man in question as he was tending to some of his soldiers who were stationed at the bottom of the Pyramid.

 

Daario turned around as he heard her, looking at her and then past her to frown disapprovingly.

 

“What are you doing down here? You shouldn’t leave the castle unprotected. Where are the guards I assigned to you?” He took her by the arm to bring her to him. It seemed to Daenerys that he was trying to protect her from the wind or the morning sun that shone brightly upon them.

“Behind, somewhere, I ran too fast for them. But look!” she exclaimed as she shoved a scroll into his face, ignoring his sullenness and choosing to smile widely at him. “Look, they’re coming back!”

 

She was beaming with relief, with utter joy, barely incapable of containing her excitement. She felt like a child again, hope running through her body. She had barely bothered getting properly dressed before she had run out her bedchambers’ door, making the three Second Sons that were posted there shout after her to try and stop her.

 

“You need to be careful,” Daario admonished her, as she heard her guards coming up to them behind her, their armours clattering with their heavy steps.

“I know, I’m sorry I didn’t take my sword with me.”

 

He laughed at that and tucked her hair behind her ear.

 

“It’s a sparring sword, you know.”

“Oh, right, I forgot about that pesky detail. In any case, we shall prepare a grand ceremony, I want a feast, I want festivities. My people will all be gathered here, and I think it’s time to celebrate.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the Ironborn and the Dornish to be here?”

 

She paused at this, and thought his question logical albeit utterly frustrating and unamusing.

 

“It would certainly make more sense yes,” she sighed disappointedly, trying to find a reason why she ought to have a feast in two days’ time. She was his Queen, after all, she could tell him that logic be damned and unreasonable requests ought to prevail over sense, but she felt that would be completely unfair of her.

“Although two smaller feasts would also make sense,” Daario mused aloud. “In terms of the amount of food, the number of servants needed and in regards to the size of the banquet hall.”

 

She beamed at him and kissed his cheek once then tapped it lightly with her right hand twice.

 

“Oh, I’ll go and tell the servants in the kitchen right away!”

 

Daenerys spent the next two days making sure that everything would be ready for the celebrations she had planned. There was much talk to be had in regards to the types of meats, fruits, cheeses and drinks that were to be served, as well as the entertainments that were planned.

 

She was sitting in her solar in the late afternoon of the third day, braiding one of her servant’s hair – her name was Makzir and she was five and twenty, barely older than Daenerys herself, and so lively it was hard not to laugh in her presence – when a guard came to warn her.

 

“They are right outside the gates, Your Grace, I have been told to ask you to come down to the banquet hall.”

“I’ll be out shortly, you may wait outside the door,”

 

He curtseyed and left without a word.

 

“Now, let me finish your hair and we’ll go together, won’t we? I daresay I shall need your excellent company tonight, feasts can be a rather boring affair without nice people around.”

 

 

**Tyrion II**

 

 

As Tyrion wandered down the path that led to the Red Keep’s Godswood, he could not help but feel as though his face had been stuck in a permanent scowl. His eyebrows had not once uncreased in weeks, his lips had not strained in merriment and his eyes had neither crinkled with joy nor contorted in pleasure in just as many desolate, sullen days. He was concerned, by too many things at once. He had not been back in Bronn’s establishment in weeks, he had not had a cup of wine in days, he had not had a moment of rest in hours upon hours. He was deeply worried, troubled and tired.

 

He wanted to rest, he wanted to fuck, be drunk and sucked dry as he told some baseless joke to some young, heavy-breasted whore. He was not enjoying in being back in the Red Keep, where pleasures were few and concerns seemed to multiply by the minute. He stopped to greet the two guards that were stationed by the King to protect him in his ‘absences’, then sighed and paused to wait and see whether the King would turn around, indicating that he had noticed his arrival.

 

The King himself was no help. He spent most of his days with his eyes rolled up into his skull touching the stump of what used to be a Weirwood tree, three thousand lifetimes ago... More or less, Tyrion was not too keen on counting, these days. He had too much to think of. Too much to worry about.  


He knew with an unavoidable certainty Daenerys Targaryen would kill him, for starters, and that sole fact alone was bound to render any man crazed with fright. He knew she would at least try to, he was not certain she would succeed, but knew not when or how she would do it.

 

He tried, desperately so, to get any piece of information from King Bran as he could, but the young man was not answering any of his questions with any clarity.

 

The King did not seem to care about what Tyrion’s former Queen would do. He had been the one to inform them that she was alive once again, or that she somehow had not died, Bran was not certain. He was not sure of much. It made Tyrion agitated, to know that the one person in the world who was supposed to be able to know everything was just as helpless as the rest of it when it came to Daenerys Targaryen.

 

“What do you mean, you’re not sure?” he told Bran again.

“I cannot see her. She is shrouded, hidden beneath a dark veil.”

“Can you see _me_?” Tyrion asked him, waving his hand in front of the boy’s eyes.

“Yes, you are right in front of me, Lord Tyrion. That is not the same thing,” he looked almost like any other man, right then, almost annoyed by Tyrion’s foolish question.

“Is she the only one you cannot see?”

“Yes and no. Her dragon is nothing more than a distant blur.”

 

Tyrion sighed and rubbed a hand to his brow. They’d been trying to locate the beast for over a moon, now, to no avail.

 

“Still nothing, then? That’s too bad. What about the North? Has he yielded to our request, yet?”

“Jon arrived in Winterfell two days ago.”

“Ah, some good news at last! Couldn’t you have told me this two days ago, then?”

 

Truth be told, King Bran had not even made an appearance in the last few days, he’d been… gone.

 

“I have been observing somewhere else, there is much to see. I need to go again.”

 

And before Tyrion could protest, King Bran turned his head away to stare into the distance as his eyes rolled up and his pupils were gone, replaced by a ghostly white emptiness. It was always a strange sight, and it always made him feel deeply uncomfortable. This was not normal, Tyrion kept repeating the words in his head. And yet he had grown somewhat used to seeing his King disappear for hours on end.

 

Tyrion sighed in defeat, he knew now that this was the time for him to leave. The boy would not answer him, he was gone again. He waited a little, desperately so. When it was clear that the boy would not come back, Tyrion turned around, jerked his head at the two guards that guarded the King at all times to order them to come closer and began to leave the Godswood.

 

And that was when Bran’s eerie voice rang again.

 

“Yara Greyjoy’s ships have just attacked the Vale’s armies.”

 

Tyrion stopped dead in his tracks and spun on his heels so quickly he almost crashed into one of the Kingsguard’s sword.

 

“What?” he stammered, a hint of urgency surging through his veins.

“She and the Martells are at war with the North.”

“I know about that! Well, not about the Martells, but… Why did she attack the Vale?”

“Not the Vale, their armies. They were sailing to the North to help Sansa.”

 

Tyrion was left speechless for a moment.

 

“When did the Martells join in on the conflict?”

“I am not sure.”

 

Again. The same words. They made Tyrion’s blood boil with the need to wrap his hands around something and twist until his fingers turned purple from exertion and all his tendons were sore.

 

“Well, can’t you try?”

“Yes I can. Although, I’m not sure it would make any difference.”

 

His expressionless demeanour was grating, to say the least, especially when it came to urging matters such as these.

 

“Well, do they know about… You know, the former Queen?”

“I do not know.”

 

Tyrion sighed in frustration and anger. He really felt like slapping the King, to try and shake an answer out of him… And also to let out his growing irritation. It would surely be satisfying, he thought to himself as he eyed the boy’s slight smirk. It would not be worth being killed by one of the guards behind him, though.

And yet, he flexed his hand, his nerves tensing in anticipation. He could, he really could do it. It would feel good.

 

“It wouldn’t do you much good,” the King told him blandly.

“What?” Tyrion sputtered confusedly.

“Striking me.”

 

Dread filled him, finding each empty crevasse in his body and growing there so rapidly it encircled his heart in mere seconds and seemed to strangle it. He felt the poor, helpless thing beat rapidly against his ribcage, the sound echoing into his ears and drowning the rest of the world out. Tyrion swallowed thickly.

 

“What? I would… I-” he stammered pitifully.

“I know, Lord Tyrion.”

 

Tyrion let out a shaky breath, and tried to compose himself as well as he could, considering that his heart was still beating a rhythm akin to war drums in his chest. He wanted to ask the King how he could know _this_ but not where the fuck Daenerys Targaryen was hiding.

 

“Right, well, I better go and warn the council about the Vale,” he said limply instead.

 

The King did not answer. Tyrion hated himself for having thought, even for a second, that appointing him as King would have been a better idea than trying to appoint Jon Snow. At least that one was easy enough to manipulate, to bend to his own will, if need be. And he could not read his scheming mind as easily as the broken boy could.

 

Bran was unobliging, unaccommodating, cold, silent and _gone_ most of the time. Tyrion often had to trek to and fro the Godswood to meet with him, and the time the King spent there had been growing and growing over the weeks. He seemed to get lost wherever he had gone, seemed to have trouble finding his way back to King’s Landing.

 

Tyrion wished he could somehow find a way to get into the King’s head, like the King could do to him, just to try and see what he saw with his own eyes. Alas, his hours spent staring at the white-eyed boy with anger and unreleased intensity were fruitless.

 

He made his way back to the council room inside the Red Keep, and the noise of builders trying to repair the sordid building made him mad with anger. He was tired of the loud chatter and cluttering noises as they put up brick after brick and wooden beam after wooden beam, and gods knew what else they were doing in there. But they were making him crazy, the noise never stopped, it seemed to him. They were at it from the crack of dawn until the twilight came and they were forced to stop.

 

He hated them all and their stupid tools and stupid bricks.

 

“Gather the council!” Tyrion barked at a passing servant, the girl grovelled before him in a hurried curtsey and quickly scurried away.

 

It took them nearly an hour to all get there, and Tyrion had grown angrier by the minute. He’d found a jug of wine, which turned out to be his sole consolation of the day.

Ser Davos was the first one to come in, with his usual cheerful smile and attempted jokes.

 

“You mind if I steal some of that wine of yours?” he asked.

“As long as you don’t steal all of it. We might need to ration it, don’t know how much longer we’ll have.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Davos looked puzzled and grumpier than he’d looked a second ago.

 

“I’ll tell you when everyone is gathered. If they bother to show up at all. Have you heard from Bronn? He’s supposed to be back!”

“Have not.”

 

Tyrion sighed and finished his cup in one gulp as Ser Davos raised his eyebrows with compassion.

 

“The Reach is in turmoil! He should be dealing with this or at least be here to deal with whatever nonsense we have to deal with!” Tyrion snapped.

“The Reach isn’t so bad,” Ser Brienne announced straight as she came in, solemn and dignified as always.

“Isn’t it? The lords won’t accept him as their Lord Paramount and are refusing to obey him.”

“Yes, but they’re not attacking anyone.”

“They’re not attacking anyone, _yet,_ ” Tyrion sighed. “Have a seat, Ser Brienne, we’re not waiting for the King, he is in the Godswood again.”

 

They waited in awkward silence for a while, Tyrion was fidgeting with a bottle of ink and twiddling a grey quill between his thumb and his index.

 

“Right, well, I guess Maester Samwell isn’t going to show up,” Tyrion grunted harshly.

“Give him some time, the library needs tending to these days,” Ser Davos attempted to reassure him. “Mayhaps we could start discussing the matter that’s troubling you? We’ll fill in the boy when he gets here.”

 

Tyrion was bored with waiting, so he nodded his head and scratched his beard, trying to find where to begin.

 

“Right, well. Where to start? The Martells have joined Yara Greyjoy’s rebellion. That’s the first bad thing. The second is that the Ironborn have attacked the Vale’s armies as they were joining the North to defend them against the Greyjoy forces. That’s already bad. As you know, the upheavals in the Northern villages have had repercussions all along the fishing villages in the western coasts and Edmund Tully has sent us yet another raven this very morrow to tell us he will not stand for Queen Sansa’s ‘malicious warfare tactics’ and ‘intimidation’ regarding the presence of her troupes at his borders. He is also threatening to revolt against us shall we try and cross his frontier with our soldiers. Although we are not planning on doing that because we, as you well know, Ser Brienne, do not have the forces to do so. That’s the third bad thing. The fourth is that the Reach is in turmoil too, but we have already discussed that. If only Ser Bronn had bothered to show up to enlighten us with his knowledge. Remind me to go and fetch a few soldiers to go fish him out of whatever brothel he’s hiding in. And, to finish off with the list of terrible and horrifying news of the Six Kingdoms, we still have no idea where Daenerys Targaryen is hiding, although I feel like the South of Essos is probably our best shot, and the King still cannot see her, nor her dragon. But, and I guess this somewhat makes up for the rest of it, Jon Snow has come down to Winterfell. I suspect he will come join us fairly soon.”

“Do we have the men? Lady- Ser Brienne, my apologies. But do we have the men to defend ourselves if the Martells decide to attack from the South?”

“We have less than three thousand men left, Ser Davos. A quarter of them are still wounded or will more likely never recover. We would need to be very strategic in our plans of defence.”

“We need to build catapults and trebuchets,” Tyrion suggested. “That would work to our advantage. We could get the builders to stop working on the Red Keep and get them to concentrate on that instead.”

“What we need is to build scorpions again, like you suggested the last time, Lord Tyrion,” Ser Brienne told him with a frown. “I’m more concerned about the dragon than I am about the lords and Queens squabbling over territorial matters.”

“That would not solve the Martell situation. We do not even have ships, if the Ironborn choose to attack from the sea as the Dornish attack by foot, we are doomed. Besides, do we know how to make them? This is why I wanted Maester Samwell to be here.”

“Didn’ they put up scorpions the last time?” Ser Davos questionned. “And what good did it do them, huh? She burnt through them like they were nothin’ more than bundles of sticks.”

“I do not think the city can be saved from her if she comes back,” Tyrion admitted in defeat. “I don’t think any of us can be saved. Especially with that news about her dragon being twice the size and her armies being back in full force. I don’t think she can be stopped. Three days ago I heard someone say there are people who saw her in Old Valyria gathering the Stone Men to her cause.”

 

The room fell silent for a while.

 

“Well if that’s true,” Ser Davos spoke up, breaking the heavy tension. “We’re fucked, aren’t we?”

“Surely that cannot be true,” Brienne told them calmly.

“It’s more likely just sailors’ talk, they probably saw a bird from afar and thought it a dragon and then the story got told and retold so many times it got twisted out of proportion… But if it is, then yes, I believe we are indeed fucked. But could it be worse than an army of the dead? I doubt it and I believe we survived through that magnificiently” Tyrion joked half-heartedly.

Ser Brienne all but glared at him. “We had two dragons and the biggest army in the world on our side, Lord Tyrion.” Her voice had been calm but harsh and it made Tyrion swallow harshly.

 

He never got the chance to answer, though, gods be merciful, for the sounds of loud, quick steps outside the door made them all turn their heads to see that Maester Samwell had finally made his way up to the council room, carrying heavy books and a handful of scrolls in his arms.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I – oh why does everyone look so concerned? What did I miss?”


	10. Fire and Steel

**Chapter 10:** **Fire and Steel**

 

The feast was a raucous affair. The dothraki had spent so long screaming their joy at her she’d thought them all mute forever by the end of their greeting.

 

She smiled at them from her vanguard, their arakhs high in the air and their fists beating against their bare chests. But she knew she had things to say to them before she could enjoy their reunion.

 

So, she raised a hand to silence them and then called out to them.

 

“Dothrakhqoyi!” she screamed, loud and clear, as their voices quieted down and their weapons lowered to their sides. “Yer zhorre jadat irge tat anna, anna dothrakhqoyi. Yer asqoyi tat zifichelat jin qoy arrekoon anna dozgo. Vosma tat vo. Yer tikh tat me ajjin ma anna. Kisha hash elat irge yomme jin ize eveth. Yer tikh tat fin yer asqoyi tat. Che yer tikh avvos mithri ma vezhof kijinosi Rhaeshi Ajjalani! Tat me ma anna! Jin qoy tikh tikh yeri qoy. Anna qoy ajjin yeri qoy.”

 

“ _You have come back to me, my bloodriders. You have sworn to steal the blood from my enemies. But you did not. You will do it now with me. We are going back across the poison water. You will do what you swore to do. Or you shall never rest with the Great Stallion in the Night Lands! Do it with me! Their blood will be yours. My blood is your blood.”_

 

There was a moment of silence and anxiety filled her chest with a dark, hopeless void for seconds that stretched into eternity. And then, the screaming started once more, roaring voices and fists bumping onto hollowed cages of bones and flesh.

 

The rest of the evening could have been a dull echo of the surge of might she had felt travel through her veins, but it had been everything she had hoped it would be.

 

First, there had been food and drinks aplenty, more than enough to fill the hungry stomachs of her soldiers and then some more for all the servants who had been invited to eat alongside her warriors. She would let them bring home the leftovers to their families. She had not invited some of her people for this feast, and although she felt conflicted about the matter she told herself that she would undeniably invite them for the following one, with her allies. It would make more sense, there would be less people then, and she wanted the Martell siblings to see her and her people, she needed them to know who she was. She would not let anyone let her stray away from the needs of her people, not ever again. But tonight, she rejoiced in the company of the soldiers who were her pride.

 

After the food came the music players and the various types of entertainments she had planned meticulously, even though she had not had time to get the dancers from Asshai that she had wanted to invite, she had had the time to request the presence of jugglers and fire breathers who were now walking around her guests and eliciting cheers and gasps of shock that were soon followed by laughter.

 

It was a pleasant sight for a while. The music was enthralling, captivating and its rhythm was beating inside her chest with ardour.

 

Her Dothraki soldiers were having fun, cheering and laughing so loudly that the hall seemed to shake with the sheer power of their voices against the pale stones that surrounded them all.

 

 

Grey Worm, who had been talking to Daario about his journey back to Meereen, got up from his seat with the cup of wine she had almost forced upon him – ‘you’re not fighting, no one can harm us here, have some fun,’ she had told him – in hand.

 

“Dovaogēdy!” he spoke out loudly, making his men turn their heads towards him as they got up to their feet in an instant. “Ilon issi kesīr naejot biarvī manaeragon īlva dāria daenerys jelmāzmo hen lentor targārien. Naejot biarvī manaeragon zȳhon tȳne sikagon, naejot dohaeragon zȳhon isse zȳhon vīlībāzma. Ilon enkagon zȳhon īlva dāez. Nykeā kirimves naejot īlva dāria!”

 

“ _Unsullied! We are here to celebrate our Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen. To celebrate her second birth, to support her in her wars. We owe her our freedom. A toast to our Queen!”_

 

The Dothraki did not understand him, she knew it clearly, but when her Unsullied rose their bronze cups in the air, they rose theirs too and the uproar of cheers rang sweetly into her ears.

 

She smiled at them fondly, and then turned to face the man who had overwhelmed her with joy.

 

“Kirimvose,” she told him. “For coming back to me and keeping all your promises.”

 

He grinned at her and she felt so proud of him right there, for having the strength to do so, for being so assertive and for leading his men and being so outspoken in his loyalty towards her.

 

She got up and raised her cup to the crowd, a wide smile splitting her face. Daenerys Targaryen stared at the only people in the world she trusted. All reunited in this room. Her new family was made up of warring men ready to kill anyone who would dare try to harm her. It had come to this, she thought to herself. If it weren’t for the women in her service, she would be alone in a sea of weaponized men.

 

“Nykeā kirimves naejot jeme syt sagon pazavor se sȳz, Dovaogēdy!” her voice echoed loudly around the room. _“A toast to you all for being loyal and good, Unsullied!”_

 

“Jin iddelat tat yer anna ivezhof dothraki” she continued as the entire room seemed to explode in cheers and screams of pride and joy. _“A drink to you, my fierce Dothraki!”_

 

As she stood there, with her cup still up in the air and a beaming smile on her face, a swift thought came flashing through her mind. And all of a sudden, she was in Winterfell, at another feast. She was alone in a sea of stranger, Jon Snow was there, laughing with a boisterous great beast of a man whose voice boomed around the dimly lit banquet hall. “What sort of man climbs on a fucking dragon?” She heard the red-headed giant ask. Daenerys had no idea herself. She did not know how she had come to let him climb atop Rhaegal. How and why she could have trusted him so. “A madman or a king,” the same stranger bellowed heartily. The words resonated in her ears until it became a faint echo which grew and grew until it was the only thing she could hear. She could see it all, now. In her head, the madman – or the _King_ , she thought bitterly – turned around and smiled sheepishly at her.

 

She turned around abruptly, nearly kicking her wooden chair to the ground. She didn’t know why she did so, she just knew that she needed to move, to look away from the cheering crowds, to do something other than smile and listen to the deafening noise her men were making to celebrate her. None of it was helping. None of it erased the past. Her handmaid followed her wordlessly. Daario and Grey Worm, got up at the same time as the woman did, as they turned their heads towards her and realized she was walking away from their table. She shook her head at them, grabbing her handmaid’s wrist lightly to let her know that the order was not meant for her.

 

“Daenerys,” Daario pleaded over the noise.

“Do not presume to stop me,” she warned him with a pointed stare.

 

He frowned at her. “I would not. I just would like to accompany you.”

“I’m just going to get some air. There are too many men here, I need a small break. I will come back shortly to participate in the festivities.”

 

He sighed and nodded once in agreement. She turned around, she did not want to stay in the smothering hall, she wanted peace and quiet and cold, fresh air.

 

“Your Grace?” Makzir inquired timidly after a while as Daenerys was walking quickly through the narrow corridor that led to the nearest balcony. She could feel the wind already breezing through her light red silk dress, making her feel less trapped than she had been behind the confines of the hall’s closed doors.

 

“Yes?”

“Are you alright?”

Daenerys sighed and rubbed a finger against her temple. “Yes, you must not worry about me, I get these migraines, from time to time,” she answered. “It’s quite alright, I assure you,” she decided to add when Makzir kept eyeing her oddly.

“You looked paler, I’m sorry for...”

 

Daenerys grabbed one of her new acquaintance’s hands and gave her a little smile, although she knew it to look contrite.

 

“No need for that, dear.”

 

They’d arrived to the end of the corridor and the air was lighter now, which made it easier for her to breathe. She walked onto the balcony and let go of Makzir’s hand to go and reach for the balustrade. It was better now. The seemingly innocuous words had dissipated with the low hum of the wind, and she could not see his smile if she concentrated hard enough on looking at the city below.

 

The silence made everything better, the faint echo of chatter and laughter not as invasive now than when she had been sitting right in the middle of it all. It was suffocating, in a way, to be surrounded by so many people at once. She remembered too much, everything was too much. Too many people, too much noise, too much to think about, and especially too much to remember. She wanted to forget everything, to be back to the beginning, where nothing mattered more than remembering Drogon’s name.

 

She wanted to forget who she was and who he was. She wanted to forget about the scar on her chest and the one that she knew was etched onto her heart. She wanted to forget about the unrelenting loneliness that lay inside her hollowed bones. Even then, surrounded by so much love, she could not help but feel it thumping its greedy paws against her every inch. It wanted to gnaw on her like it had done at that other feast, the one where everything had been cold and dead, hope and friends and foes alike. It was always there, lurking, trying to get out of the confines she had assigned it to. No matter how many people she could surround herself with. She was alone.

 

She had always been, she reminded herself. She had always been alone, even with other people around; It was a strange condition that her birth and her status had forced on her. Not being lonely was the exception, it was a cherished rarity that she had known in _his_ arms. It pained her to remember him. It reminded her how alone she was without him. No matter who else was there, he was not. It would have to pass, she told herself. It would have to. She could not spend the rest of her days missing him.

 

She looked up at the sky, the white light of the moon and the golden stars that shone bright against the darkness. She was looking for a sign of her son, but Drogon was still gone, she could not feel him near her. It unnerved her as greatly as it pained her. She nearly wished she had gone away with him the last time she had seem him, to see where he was going and what he was doing. Surely, she thought, he must be doing something, he must have a reason to want to be so far away from her.

 

“Your Grace?” Makzir’s voice shook her out of her reverie.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if you needed some water, perhaps?”

“No, no it’s fine, Makzir. We should go back to the feast, I have guests to attend to.”

 

It had grown incredibly dark and the colours had grown warmer and warmer as the flames of torches became the only sources of light inside the pyramid’s walls.

 

When she came back, half of the soldiers got up to their feet to cheer for her. Most of them were too drunk to have some propriety. She was glad she had asked them to leave their weapons at the gate, as the Dothraki had already started fighting and she did not want any bloodshed.

 

She sat back down next to Daario as he handed her a cup of mulled wine that she took eagerly. She then stared silently at the fires that were being spewed out of the mouths of the dancing strangers she had paid to be here. It was mesmerizing, she felt drawn to them, they looked like Drogon’s mouths, they were dragons in their own rights.

 

Kinvara, who was sitting besides Makzir, leaned towards her.

 

“The truth is in those flames, Azor Ahai, do not fear them. Do not look away, they are a part of you as much as you are a part of them,” the Red Priestess assured her.

 

By the time Daenerys turned to look at ther, the mysterious woman had started talking to her handmaid and Daenerys looked back to the entertainers that circled around the room.

 

After a few minutes, they seemed to have noticed how intensely she was looking at them, and the fire breathers asked her to join them to perform a trick with her. She could not refuse and took one of the hands of a strange-looking man with a bright red beard that was split in two braided strands, and who had tattoos that covered his entire torso and arms. He led her to the centre of the room and asked her to sit on a chair. She knew everyone was looking at her, she knew they were all ready to defend her if need be. She felt safe, somehow.

 

Two women joined the red-bearded man and together they circled around her, their arms moving in sinuous, undulating movements as the fiery chains that they swung around splashed sparks onto the stone floor. A few of them landed on her and her leather shoes. It should have hurt, she knew it. It did not. It made her feel alive.

 

Abruptly, the man took the wooden torch he’d been playing with, bent down to face her and put the lit object to his mouth once more. Fire spewed out of him once more. Daenerys thought he’d aimed at her but the flames, although their heat seemed to lick warmly at her scalp, went over her head.

 

Her soldiers cheered, she could hear it above the whooshing sounds of swinging chains and roaring fire.

 

The two women kept going round and round in circles around Daenerys and the bearded man. Their chains rose to the air and seemed to go so fast it created a ring of fire above her head. It was captivating. She looked up.

 

And suddenly, the fire was everywhere. It circled the both of them completely. From the top of the room to the ground, she was surrounded by a ring of fire.

 

It was strangely silent. She was aware of that. Everything was bright orange and she smiled at the sight of it.

 

The man got up and offered his hand to hers. He did not say a word and neither did she. She got up and he pointed out the ring of fire to her with a shove of his head.

 

“Go ahead,” he told her in the common tongue.”

“What do you mean?” she questioned.

“Go past the threshold.”

“The threshold? The fire? I can’t. I’ll burn my dress.”

 

He chuckled. “That’s what bothers you, my Queen? You won’t. You know you won’tDo not worry.”

 

She hesitated before nodding. It was only a dress, she reminded herself. No matter what, the fire would protect her.

 

She took a few tentative steps, pushing her left leg forward and into the fire. And when she realized that it did not feel warm at all, she walked into the fire and out of it all at once.

 

As soon as she had done so, the fire disappeared completely. The entire hall was looking at her with an odd sort of awed bewilderment.

 

The man with the braided beard came up to her and grabbed her hand to raise it high in the air.

 

“The Unburnt!” he announced to the crowd.

 

The cheers that erupted around the room were deafening. Daenerys was at a loss for word for a second. She looked around. The two women had let down their ropes and were bowing to the crowd. The bearded man put down their hands and let her go to do the same.

 

“You could have told me you were witches,” she scorned half-heartedly once the cheers had stopped.

“Our magic is that of the Lord of Light, Azor Ahai. We are not witches. We are here to serve you.”

 

Daenerys frowned but nodded. The rest of the feast was nothing short of an unbridled, riotous affair. Her men were roused up with elation and the thrill of fire. She knew it because she felt it too.

 

She encouraged Grey Worm to drink some more. And he laughed with her as they talked with Daario.

 

They stayed up well into the night. She only retired at the crack of dawn when she yawned too much and struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Come,” she told Daario, who was leaning onto one of his arms which was poised onto the table.

“Hmm?” he muttered, not bothering to open his mouth. She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

 

She should not be doing this in a crowded room where her own men could see her. She knew it. She knew it but did not care, not right now, not in her drunken tiredness.

 

“To bed,” she continued. He nodded and got up with a yawn.

 

The following day turned out to be quite the whirlwind. To begin with, and worst of all she thought to herself, she woke up with a dry mouth and a sudden aversion for daylight. Daario was already gone and next to her empty bed she found a tray of food which nauseated her.

 

She got up, ignoring the way her knees felt like they were about to give up under her weight and went to fetch a cup of water and then went to get dressed.

 

That was when a young servant came in timidly with both hands behind his back. He must have been fourteen, she thought to herself.

 

“Your Grace,” he told her as she was putting on her shoes.

“Yes? I’ve never seen you before, what’s your name?”

“Moraq, Your Grace… You- you got a raven, Your Grace.”

“Hand it here, Moraq. You should knock before you come in.”

“I’m sorry, I-I didn’t realize… I’m so sorry-”

She cut him off. “It’s alright, you won’t forget it the next time. There’s no need to be afraid, Moraq. You’re doing a good job. Is it your first day here?” Daenerys asked him as she was finishing buckling her sandal, throwing him sideways glances.

“Yes,” the boy told her as he walked up to her. He was too scared to look her in the eyes and get biting at his lip.

 

He was close enough to hand the letter over to her, yet did not do so. She extended her hand to him, frowning slightly when he did not pull out his hands from behind his back.

 

“Well, you can give the raven to me now,” she said impatiently.

“I-I can’t Your Grace,” he stuttered, his small black eyes looking teary.

“It’s alright dear, you don’t need to panic,” she assured him as she got up to come to him.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

“No need, just give the letter to me.”

“I can’t,” he moaned as he shook his head vigorously.

“Why is that?”

 

He looked away from her, first to the side and then to the ground. He sighed, the watery sound almost turning into a sob. His hands finally came down to his side and she immediately saw the glint of metal in the morning sun.

 

She did not think. She had no time for that. She shoved him away harshly and then dashed away from him and towards the dresser where the dagger that had killed her once still lay. It was missing the protective leather on it and her nails scrapped up against the wood as she grabbed it in a hurry.

 

He had run to her and when she turned around, the boy was mere feet away from her, his own blade ready for combat.

 

“GUARDS!” she shouted. “GUARDS!”

“They’re gone,” the boy told her. He did not look afraid any more. He did not look like a scared little boy. It had all been a ruse, she realized.

 

She was not used to fighting with such a small blade. If she were to strike first, she would not know how to make sure she wouldn’t be attacked back. Her hesitations turned out to be in vain for he was the first one to strike. She leaped to her side to avoid him. It was not as easy to do so in such closed quarters, with the dresser digging into her back and furnitures and wall impeding her decisions and possible ways of escaping.

 

She was cornered, she knew it. She could not wait for . She struck back and then kicked him as he did not expect a blow from beneath. He grunted as her sandalled foot came to bump against his shin and staggered backwards.

 

He leapt towards her, his blade coming mere inches away from her throat as he made to grab at her right arm with his free hand. She writhed away and then struck her hand forward.

 

He grunted, pain contorting his face in a strange grimace. When he stepped away from her, she could feel the vibrations of his movements in her hand as his body slid away from the blade she was still holding onto tightly.

 

She did not look down. She looked him straight in the eye, trying to figure out what he was going to do next. He staggered backwards again, fumbled against the edge of her bed where he sat down as his hands came to his stomach to hold onto his pouring blood. He looked down and raised his trembling hand to see.

 

She felt nauseated. She wanted to crumble to the floor and cry. She wanted to beg his forgiveness. She wanted to run to him and stab him again. She wanted to run away.

 

She did not move.

 

“Who sent you?” she asked him. He did not reply, he was still looking down to his hand. “Was it the Sons of the Harpy?” she insisted.

“No,” he grunted out.

“Who then? Tell me!”

 

He went still, then. His eyes rolled up his skull, blank white orbs replacing them, and for a second she thought him dead.

 

But then his eyes were back again as quickly as they had left. He got up to his feet in a hurry. He did not look like he was in pain, he only looked furious and crazed. He ran up to her, his small sword stabbing at the air wildly as she raced to her solar to get away from him. She had almost made it to her council table when his hand grabbed at her arm tightly and she spun around so fast she almost fell down. He stabbed at her again, his blade scratching against her left arm as blood gushed out of it in a stream that flew across the room.

 

She struck again. She had to, she told herself. She had to. He would kill her. She had to kill him. The blade came up to his throat in a flash. She barely believed her own eyes when he fell to the ground.

 

Lifeless. He was lifeless.

Blood poured out of his neck and onto the floor.

 

She was breathing hard. Before she knew it, she was kneeling on the ground. The sound of clattering metal. The scuffing of the cold stones against her knees. The warmth of blood pouring down her arm.

 

He was dead. The day had just begun. The boy was dead. She had killed him.

 

She stayed there on the floor for a while before sudden movement made her turn around to see who was coming. She rose to her feet, clutching the dagger tightly in her hand.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this was a Daenerys only chapter, haven't done one of those in a while. I hope you liked it! 
> 
> Quick note: I'm going on vacation for ten days, so I won't be able to upload anything new in the meantime. That said, that should leave you some time to decide which character POV you would like to see in the next chapter! I'm up for any character, I'll just pick the one that has been mentioned the most.
> 
> I wish you all the best, see you soon!


	11. Crowns and Roads

**Chapter 11: Crowns and Roads**

 

The sounds of rushed footsteps coming to her, shouts in the distance, someone calling her name. A scream of horror.

 

She stood still, her shaking hand gripping onto hard-edged steel. Her own soldiers came to her, she did not trust them. She could not. The realization struck her harshly. She took a step backwards, right into the puddle of the boy’s blood. She looked down at his body. She had to make sure he was truly dead.

 

Three guards rushed towards her, she rose her arm higher and shook her head in answer. She could not trust them to come nearer.

 

“No!” she shouted. “Do not come closer.”

“Daenerys!” Daario’s voice rang from outside the room.

 

He got to her side in a blur, she barely acknowledged his presence, so intent was she on keeping a watchful eye on the guards that were standing a half a dozen feet away from her. They didn’t dare come closer to her. She felt warm hands try and pry away the dagger from her clenched fist. Her eyes strayed away from the armed soldiers for a second to look at Daario.

 

“No,” she told him. “No.”

“You’re hurt! Let me-”

She cut him off. “Don’t,” she warned him.

“It’s just me,” he assured her, one of his hands still surrounding hers as his other one was trying to probe at the wound on her upper arm.

 

She shook her hand away from him and shakily pointed the bloodied weapon towards him.

 

She blinked, trying to deter the tears that were forming in her prickling eyes.

 

“What if it’s not?” she asked him with the smallest of voices, the sound so foreign she could have mistaken her own voice for someone else’s.

 

He frowned and looked down at the dagger in her hand with a pained look on his face.

 

“What do you mean? It’s me, it’s just me. You can trust me.”

 

She could not. She knew that she could not. She never could trust anyone. It was clear to her now, how many times had she been betrayed? How foolish would it be of her to trust. How incredibly risky was it to do so? He could kill her. Anyone could kill her. Everyone could try to kill her. Most of them did, in the end. She had to protect herself. She could not let her feelings cloud her judgment as they once had. She did not love Daario. She could not. The risks were too high. She could not trust him, either. Jon Snow had taught her that.

 

Her hand shook under the weight of the memories and fears that had taken hold on her mind, on her body. She wanted to run away, to attack him, make him flee. She wanted peace, wanted trust and love. It was long gone, she told herself. All of it, a bitter memory of things she used to have.

 

“Prove it,” she hissed at the man at her side. “Prove to me that you’re who you say you are. Prove to me you’re not going to kill me.”

“I don’t understand. Daenerys, what happened? Tell me what’s happened.”

She raised her arm higher, the blade nearly coming to his throat. He did not blink, did not flinch away. He simply looked worried.

 

“The boy tried to kill me. Are you going to try to do the same?”

 

Her tone was harsh, cold, broken. She almost regretted the way she had said them, but felt obliged to have done so.

 

“No, no, my Queen, I swear-”

 

She sighed, her eyes stinging with tears that were threatening to spill out. She clenched her jaw and avoided looking at him. She was tired, truth be told, of men swearing themselves to her. She did not believe him. She did not believe anyone. She would never do so again.

 

“You can’t swear that.”

 

Suddenly, she turned away from him, blinking fast and breathing hard. The dagger felt heavy in her hand, the weight of it far greater than its own mass. She crumbled to her knees, exhausted and weary.

 

A shadow knelt down besides her, took away the blood-soaked weapon and took her in its arms.

 

“You’re alright, I won’t harm you. I won’t. You have to believe me.”

“It’s alright, I believe you,” she answered him shakily, her free hands coming to grab at the arms that had encircled her torso.

 

 

“Who sent him? Did he tell you who sent him?” he asked her hours later, as she was once again wrapping her arm with a fresh bandage in the middle of the meeting they were having.

“No, I asked him. I asked him who sent him and if it was the Sons of the Harpy, he never told me.”

 

She tucked the end of the cream-coloured gauze inside the upper edge of the fabric, her nail scratching lightly against her tender skin in the process. She hissed lightly and flinched, turning away from the crowd of advisors at her side.

 

“I don’t think it was them.”

“Who do you think it was, then?”

“We have to entertain the possibility that the messages you’ve sent out to Westeros have been intercepted, or that your allies have betrayed you.”

 

The realization struck her sharply, a fresh blow to her confidence.

 

“No, Yara would never-”

“What about Dorne?” Grey Worm spoke up.

 

She stood up, started pacing as she fiddled with her bandage. She had pushed away the handmaids who had tried to re-wrap it for her, telling them she did not need their help. She had even been weary of the Maester from the Temple of the Graces Daario had sent for, only allowing him to stick her with a needle and some thread after he had agreed to let her inspect his instruments.

 

“If anything, it’s the letter I sent to Sansa Stark that did this.”

“You sent what?” Daario sounded angry. She silenced him with a pointed glare.

“I know what I did. I did not consider that she would send assassins my way.”

“You said his eyes turned white, did you not? I cannot fathom that a mere girl like her would be able to do that,” Kinvara informed them, speaking up for the first time. Daenerys turned to look at her, pausing across the room to frown in understanding. The High Priestess was toying with her necklace when she continued. “I think the false god’s puppet is to blame.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because you’re the biggest threat to his plans. You’re the only thing that keeps him from having total control of everything. We might need to act fast,” Kinvara told the small assembly, her forefinger and thumb still stroking the red stone at her throat.

“Fast?” Daario questioned. “Why in the seven hells would we do that when our forces aren’t ready yet?”

 

Grey Worm seemed to agree with him, Daenerys could see it clearly in his eyes. He did not need to speak up for her to see his disapproval of the situation. Jaqho, the new man her Dothrakis had chosen to represent them, did not seem to understand much of what was being said. Daenerys needed to find a new translator, although it pained her to even think about replacing Missandei. It became obvious that someone who could teach her soldiers to speak to one another and to understand what was being said during council meetings was of the utmost importance. She would need to find one, as much as it displeased her to think so.

 

“Because Brandon Stark seems to know where we are, as much as it displeases me to say, and he might try to strike again,” Daenerys answered Daario, snapping out of her reverie. She was beyond exasperated by the prospect of yet another usurper’s dogs coming for her. “We will need to strike soon, lest we be victims of his attacks once more. I will not let him intimidate us. I need to protect my people and my reign.”

“I won’t let them get you. None of us will. You need to be guarded at all times.”

“I was guarded this morning, can you tell me what happened to those guards?”

“They left when the boy told them they were needed elsewhere,” Daario admitted. “Although they swear he was very convincing. He told them I had asked for them, that it was an emergency.”

“They need to be punished,” Grey Worm declared.

 

Daenerys felt her throat tighten at the idea.

 

“They’ll be executed tomorrow,” Daario said with an eerily calm voice.

 

Daenerys turned away from them to go and face the small window of the usually unused room. She could not go back to her bedchambers yet, could not imagine holding a meeting in her own solar, a few feet away from the spot she had stabbed the boy to death.

 

“There’s no need to execute them,” she spoke up tightly, trying to compose herself as best she could before she turned back to look Daario in the eye.

“My Queen,” he began.

“I know what you will say, I know. But executing them will not solve anything. Foolishness should not warrant a death sentence. I think it best we punish them by demoting them, assign them to the latrines, make them clean the stables, or send them to the kitchens to clean after the butchers. Let them learn not to be foolish.”

“The others will not-”

“I care not what the others will think about this. But I think they will learn from this as well, these were high-ranked officers, they were assigned to their Queen. I showed them mercy when they failed me, the others will see that.”

 

Daario looked like he was ready to speak up once more, so she did so before he could. “Now, if we could please move on to other pressing matters,” she told him, her tone far from pleading. This was not really something they would argue about. They were changing the subject, she was not executing anyone for being foolish.

“What do you wish to talk about?” Kinvara enquired.

“The blacksmith. When do I get to meet him?”

“You can meet him now, if you so wish,” Grey Worm told her.

“Good, someone go and fetch him,” she announced to the room, and a servant left his spot to leave the room immediately. She turned back to face Grey Worm. “You have met the man, have you not?” she asked her Master of War, who nodded in answer. “Tell me, what kind of man is he?”

His answer was short and concise. “Proud and old,” he told her.

 

He turned out to be right. The most talented armourer in the world seemed to be nothing more than an odd-looking, old, withered and leathered man half shrunk by time and years of daily wear and strain. He stood at a slight forward angle that nearly could have made him look to be despondent if not for the fierce look on his face. The slight smile on his face could have been a terrifying sight, as it highlighted the crooked scar on his cheek, but his age made him look far less frightening than he must have looked twenty years before. The brown scar ran deep and long from his temple to his chin, and Daenerys understood right there and then that this must not have been the sort of man that was to be trifled with. This was a mark only a sword could make, this was a smile that had seen many a battle. She could see hints of Ser Barristan in him, he looked more like an ageing warrior than a blacksmith. His broad shoulders had endured too much and seemed to strain as he extended his glove-covered hands to offer her with a piece of armour he had made.

 

“It is not tailored to your size, Your Highness,” he told her in Valyrian. “I only brought it to show you what I can do.”

 

She stepped closer to him to grab the breastplate. It was much lighter than she thought it would be and she rose it closer to her face to inspect it.

 

“And I thank you for having gone through the trouble of travelling so far to do so. Pray tell, what may I call you?” she asked the man. Was he a noble man? A Lord? A former knight?

“Master Tegho, Your Grace, I am nothing more than what my profession has made of me.”

“Aren’t we all, Master Tegho?” she smiled at him and handed him back the shiny silver breastplate.

 

He did not reply but let out a short, small laugh and bowed his head at her.

 

“Tell me, Master, do you know how to make Valyrian steel?”

“Indeed, this armour is Valyrian steel, Your Grace.”

“How long would it take you to forge an entire armour and sword?”

“It depends, Your Grace. A few weeks at the very least. Months if you want something very detailed.”

“How about a crown? I will grant you access to the vaults of the pyramid, we have just about every type of jewels known to man.”

“I would have to start working on sketches and designs, Your Grace.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Master Tegho, I have one small request in the matter, you will need to use this blade,” she told him and paused as she drew out the weapon she had strapped to her hip to show it to him. “For the crown’s design. Can that be done?”

“Very easily so, Your Highness. May I take the dagger?”

“You may,” she answered as she handed it over to him, as conflicting as the gesture was, she knew it to be necessary. He bowed to her and took a step back, examining the weapon that had both ended and saved her life in a matter of months.

 

A servant came into the room in a hurry and came to Daario’s side to whisper in his ear. She turned back to the Master, concern creasing her brows. “You may take your leave, Master Tegho, I will come see you in two days’ time,” she dismissed the old blacksmith.

 

The old man bowed one more time before turning on his heels, a few servants helping him carry the different types of armour he had brought with him as a display of his prowesses.

 

“What is it?” she asked loudly once the sound of the heavy wooden doors closing finished resonating around the stony room. Daenerys walked back to the table where her advisors were gathered, and sat down at the nearest empty chair. Daario waited until she was comfortably sat down to speak up again.

“Westerosi ships have been spotted near Lys, my Queen,” he announced both to her and to the rest of the room. “Nothing out of the ordinary, only they do not bear any markings or banners, and they do not appear to be merchant ships.”

“It is indeed intriguing, if not slightly concerning,” Daenerys replied with a sigh. “What am I to make of this? Do you suggest we investigate them or let them sail to know their whereabouts?”

 

She would need a Master of Ships too, she thought to herself. She needed advisors. She needed people to rely on, people with experience who were bright and inquisitive. Perhaps Queen Yara would accept the position, Daenerys thought to herself. But she would need to accept Daenerys’ first position beforehand.

 

She sighed before she looked up expectantly at Daario, who looked like he was mulling over something before he could express his opinion and to Grey Worm, who had not seemed to realize her questions were also meant for him. His eyes snapped up to hers when he sensed her gaze on him, making up sit up straighter.

 

“So?” she questioned, trying to press the matter.

“I think we send small crew,” Grey Worm replied. “But not dressed as soldiers. No big ship. Just small crew of men on normal ship. To see who they are.”

“I agree,” Daario nodded, his eyes fixated on her Master of War thoughtfully. “They’ll need weapons, sure, but we don’t send them dressed as soldiers, that’s too obvious. A small fishing boat would suffice.”

“How soon could it be done?”

“No more than a few days, Your Grace.”

“Good. That is settled, then.” Daenerys smiled and pressed both of her palms to the table. “Anything else to add?”

 

The room fell silent for a few seconds. Daenerys waited, and when no one spoke up again and it seemed certain that no one would for the day, Daenerys stood up.

 

“Well, meeting adjourned, then.”

 

Her advisors stood up and started leaving the room, as did the servants and soldiers who were scattered over the room.

 

“Daario?” she called out hesitantly.

 

He turned around and immediately walked over to her side.

 

“Yes?” he asked her.

 

She waited until the room was empty – she had to wave the few recalcitrant soldiers away, as they did not seem to want to bulge – to answer him.

 

“Would you like to be named Hand of the Queen?”

 

 

 

**JON IV**

 

 

 

Jon was leaving. He had decided as much at the very moment he had risen his eyes to look at the woman he still considered as his sister. He rose to his feet, wiped away the traitorous tears that had fallen off of his tired eyes and onto his cracked cheekbones. In doing so, he accidentally crinkled up the piece of parchment he was still holding onto.

 

“What?” he asked, bewildered by her audacity. He tried to smooth out the letter with his hands.

“Are you going to kill yourself?” she repeated, visibly irked by the fact she had to repeat the question.

“What concern is it of yours?” he huffed.

“You have a duty-”

“I don’t have a duty to anyone! I’m not a king.”

“You could have been. You were, once.”

“Once,” he spoke the word back at her. “Not any longer. Not ever again.”

 

She sighed and tutted her tongue at him before she turned away. She took two small steps before she paused and started talking without looking at him.

 

“If you try to harm yourself, I’ll have you chained.”

 

He let out a short harsh laugh, disbelieving her. At the noise, Sansa turned back to face him once more and glare at him coldly.

 

“I am not jesting, Jon. This is no laughing matter. You have a duty and you must uphold it.”

 

He frowned, hesitated and then opened his mouth with a clear purpose.

 

“I am not going to kill myself,” he told her calmly. “I have no idea what gave you the impression that I would.”

She raised her eyebrows and nodded her head to his hands. “Then what is she talking about?”

 

He looked down at the parchment and ran his thumb against it. He had to do it, he told himself. He had to. He was done with honour. He was done with trust.

 

“I might have considered it for a while. I never told anyone this, though. I don’t know how she knows. But it was a fleeting thought, I was desperate and grieving. I was weak. I’m not weak now.”

 

He avoided his sister’s stare as best he could. But he could not avoid her altogether. She let out a deep sigh and he could see from what he could make out of her posture that she was angry. Most likely at him, he figured.

 

“How could you even-” she begun.

“Do you know what it feels like? Do you have any idea?” he yelled, surprising both Sansa and himself in the process. Despite his reluctance, he looked her in the eye to see her reaction. He had not meant to do that. He had to make it up, somehow. He had to make her believe him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered and flinched at his own words.

“I killed Ramsey, remember?” she told him, ignoring his apology.

 

He gasped and took a step back, his feet were desperate to carry him out of there as fast as they could.

 

“I know you did,” he told her instead, his voice unwavering.

“Do you know what I felt when I did it? Delight, anger, relief. I know what it feels like.”

“You’re right. I’m glad you got to feel that.”

“It’s what you’ll feel, too.”

 

His hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tensed under the pressure. He looked away from her and nodded in silence, dread twisting at his guts. He knew what he had to do.

 

“You’re right. I know you are. I should go and get some sleep.”

“Jon, you’ll have to do it again. You can’t not do it.”

 

He nodded again, clenched and unclenched his fists twice before speaking out.

 

“I know.”

“You’ll do it, then?”

“I will.”

 

The slightest of smiles crept up her mouth, she was seemingly satisfied with his answer.

 

“Good. Go get some rest, you’ll ride South in a sennight.”

“What about you?” he asked her.

“I won’t leave my people. I won’t leave my Kingdom.”

“You’re a good Queen,” he muttered before swallowing thickly.

 

She smiled again, broader than the last time. “Good night, brother.”

 

He left her bedchambers silently and calmly to head down the cold corridors of his childhood home.

 

He waited in the closest empty room he could find. And then he left Winterfell in the dead of the night.

 

He was on the road to White Harbour as fast as he could, completely and utterly alone atop his dark brown horse. He rode hard and fast and tried to avoid the main roads just as he tried to disguise himself as best he could, pulled up a hood over his face and tried to hide his sword from the passerby he encountered along the way. Everyone knew who he was, it seemed to him. Everyone looked at him as if they knew who he was, or so he thought. Every glance was a threat, everyone could want him chained and sent back to Winterfell to await Sansa’s judgment. He encountered a great many people who looked thinner than they ought to, they were all threats somehow. In front of one of the inns he slept in, he saw a man and a woman beg for coins or food for their children.

 

He’d dismounted immediately and had given them as much money as he could spare without compromising his plans. Jon had decided that he was going to board a ship. He was going to head south. He was going to do everything right, this time.

 

He was not going to King’s Landing, the King and his council be damned. He was going to Dragonstone. He had not told Sansa as much before he left Winterfell. He had lied, the realization struck him awkwardly. He had lied to her. He had told his sister he was heeding Bran’s request and was going to go to King’s Landing in a sennight. He had his reasons for lying. Daenerys was alive and was planning on coming back to Westeros to kill them all, and he was going to go try and make amends before she could get to him. He was a fool, he knew it. But he would rather die trying to get to her than trying to kill her. Death was his only way out, this time.

 

He was not afraid of death, not afraid of her killing him for daring to show up in her own home uninvited. Hells, he might even get there before she did. But he had to try something. He would not join Bran and Tyrion. He could not. He would do what he wanted to do. He was done with doing what others wanted him to do. He had done that all his life. His only exception had been Daenerys. He had indulged himself selfishly with her, before everything had turned to shit. She had been the only thing he had wanted for himself and had sought. And she still was, somehow.

 

He was seeking her out again, in a way, he thought to himself as he neared White Harbour. Seeking her wrath, her warmth, her ire and laughter. He wanted it all. She could kill him if she wished. He was not staying away from her.

 

He was going to come to her, beg for her forgiveness, pledge himself to her, offer her his heart, his sword, his life. He would convince her to let him do it.

 

He boarded the first ship he could find that was bound south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It's been a while! But between my holidays and the fact that I got sick basically on the last day of my holiday, I did not have much time to write. I'm so glad to be back! I hope you've enjoyed the chapter!


	12. Ships, Solace and Solitude

**Chapter 12: Ships, Solace and Solitude**

 

 

The soldiers left Meereen on an unusually cloudy day, and Daenerys watched them go with creeping anxiety. She knew her fears were unnecessary and useless, but it did not stop the tense feeling deep in her stomach nor did it stop her from having trouble finding sleep. Daario had left with them. It was only a small crew, half Unsullied, half Second Sons, and he had volunteered for the job. She had not wanted Grey Worm to go, he was much needed in the matter of teaching the newly chosen Dothraki leader, Jhaqo, to speak Valyrian. She would teach him the Common Tongue herself, she had resolved. She had asked Makzir, her closest handmaid, to search for a translator who would be willing to come work in the Pyramid. It would be no small task, she had warned Makzir as much, for the position had once been filled with the best translator in the world.

 

She shifted in bed, huffing with restlessness. So many things could go wrong, there were so many different ways in which her men could be found out, ambushed, attacked, killed, taken hostage. She turned and turned in her bed, desperately trying to find the sleep she knew she would not get.

 

Drogon was gone again. He had left the day after the soldiers had. She was alone. It was a terrifying and soothing thought all at once. She had grown all too used to Daario being there to comfort her, his body a familiar presence she all too often used as a tether. Without him here, it was all too easy to drift back to memories and dreams of shifting shadows and the caressing touch of the man she could not keep away from her mind.

 

She turned again, restless. He haunted her. It was not fair, she thought to herself, that she should remember the softness of his gaze and the hot wetness of his tongue above all else. It was easier, perhaps, she mused. It was easier to think of this than of the cold blade. It was being fashioned into a crown, at least that was that. If she concentrated enough, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin, feel his calloused hands roam up and down her torso. She clenched her eyes shut, seeing white stars dance around the darkness of her own eyelids.

 

Curse him, she thought. Curse him and his memories. None of them ever brought her joy, they just made her feel terrified, empty and lonely.

 

After what seemed to be endless hours, she got up. She was hungry and restless, and felt that she needed to go run or punch at a pillow, anything that would release the growing anger in her chest.

The sun had not risen yet, and the soldiers she came by right outside her door looked tired and bored from hours upon hours of waiting for something to happen.

 

She greeted them good morning as she walked past them, and they both responded with a silent, curt nod. As she started to walk away, she realized with a sigh that she would have to stop to talk to them.

 

“You should follow me around, do you know the new protocol?”

 

They nodded in silence and followed her step as she walked all the way down to the kitchens. She could have had a servant bring a platter of food to her, she knew that she could. But she enjoyed the stroll, enjoyed the feel of the wind brushing against her bare calves and the coldness of the stone beneath her bare feet.

 

The sound of cluttering armour followed her every step, and as jarring as it was against the quiet of the night, it was a comforting sound nonetheless. When she reached the kitchens, she expected it to be completely devoid of people. And yet, there were a half dozen servants and cooks working tirelessly, kneading doughs and plucking the feathers off of chickens with blood pouring out of their lifeless necks.

 

She had seen worse, she told herself as she walked to the centre of the room, where a big wooden table was filled with platters onto which all sorts of cheeses and fruits were set.

 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she told the people who were working there. They were all looking at her with wide-eyed faces and open mouths. She smiled at them, trying to ease the situation. “You can keep working as usual, I won’t bother you. I was just hungry.”

 

After a long, heavy pause, they all finally turned their backs on her to continue with their tasks. She sat down in silence, grabbed a few pieces of fruit and a silver knife from the platter of cheeses to cut her apple into slices.

 

“My Queen?” she heard someone say from behind her.

 

She turned around, watching and hearing the clatter of the armours of her soldiers as Grey Worm emerged from behind them.

 

“What are you doing away from your chambers?” he asked her in Valyrian.

“I got hungry. Why are you awake at such an hour?” she questioned in return, tapping her left hand onto the seat of the wooden bench onto which she was sitting to invite him to join her.

“There was an incident with some soldiers during practice, after supper. He broke his leg badly, his bone got through the skin. I stayed with him when the healer came.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she smiled as he sat next to her and grabbed a plate of cured meats and a piece of bread. “Is he alright, now?”

“The bone is back in his leg, at least,” he answered.

 

She laughed, the loud sound echoing round the kitchen. The sound so foreign at such an hour that the cooks and servants stopped working once more to look at her. Her Commander of War looked at her with concern and lack of understanding. She did not really fully understand why she was laughing either, if she were to be honest.

 

“I’m sorry,” she giggled. “I did not expect such an answer. It was very improper of me to laugh. I am happy his leg could be mended.”

“Are you alright, my Queen?”

“I’m fine, Grey Worm, just very tired and restless. I worry too much. Are you alright?”

“I am. But, this place. It has too many memories. Of Missandei.”

 

She swore she could feel her heart break right at this moment. Her burning eyes swelled up with cold tears that threatened to spill out. She looked at him, her head cocking to the side and grabbed his hand with hers firmly.

 

“I know, I’m so sorry. I miss her too. She was the kindest soul in the world,” she nodded emphatically as she spoke the words, her lips quivering and her jaw clenching.

 

Grey Worm was an unusually stoic man, she knew it, but he looked none of that tonight. Perhaps he was too tired for this, perhaps he, too, had gone through too much for his stern facade to stay unbroken. For he too, tonight, looked on the verge of tears. She did not have time to think, her arms acted of their own volition, she embraced him tightly as cool, fat droplets of water fell onto her cheeks and her chest heaved with silent sobs.

 

 

 

**Yara II**

 

 

She had been at sea for twelve days when she told her men to head starboard, for Yara’s plans to head straight to Meereen had been intercepted the moment she had received a mysterious raven from Dorne. The small rolled-up piece of parchment had been deliberately vague in its contents but Yara had immediately known what it meant anyway. Princess Arianne and Prince Quentyn Martell had received a message from Queen Daenerys summoning them to Meereen just as she had.

 

The sunny, sandy beaches of Sunspear had been a pleasant, comforting sight. But the thing that had made Yara the happiest of all was seeing the smiling princess that had waved at them from the pier. She had smiled smugly in answer, standing stoically still on the deck of her ship.

 

Yara and her men had been most welcome, just as she had been the last time she had been there and they had enjoyed another delightful evening at Sunspear, if not for Prince Quentyn’s relentless questions about Queen Daenerys and the seemingly dangerous war to come. They had come to the conclusion that their ships would need to be as inconspicuous as they could be. She had agreed to take down the sails off her fleet for they bore the proud sigil of her house and would be too obvious. The Dornish agreed to do the same.

 

Her now closest allies had only brought less than half a dozen ships with them when they joined them at sea, crowding as many of their soldiers into them as they could. Which meant that Yara had been free to offer her own personal boat to house her royal guests for the duration of their journey. This, in turn, assured Yara all the distractions she would usually only manage to obtain whilst she was not at sea. The Princess was a delectable beauty, for sure, and the drunken evenings they had spent together had been increasingly flirtatious. But nothing had happened yet. And even after fifteen long days and nights at sea, Arianne had not even let her kiss her yet.

 

This morrow was their sixteenth day at sea together, and Yara was growing impatient. She had never had to suffer the plight of courtship before, she had never been interested in women of such high stature before, either. This was a completely different ordeal to the salt wives from home and port brothel whores she was used to. This entailed a chase, surges upon surges of needs and wants that seemed doomed to never be sated. Propriety was a foreign, intrusive concept Yara would have easily parted with. But the Princess seemed to enjoy it, or so it seemed to Yara.

 

She tried to sit up against the wooden headboard of her bed, her hands struggling to lift her own weight up with exertion. She closed her eyes and tried to forget about the reason why she was left in such a state.

 

They still had well over a week before they would even reach Old Valyria, and maybe an entire moon’s turn before they would get to Meereen. Yara was growing impatient of this, too. She wanted to see the Queen for herself, wanted to make sure the message had not been a cruel, crude jest. She wanted to make sure she would get the vengeance she was seeking so desperately she felt the need to combust any time she thought of Westeros. Heading east was alleviating that particular tenseness in her body, at the very least. Although it was being replaced by a seemingly more pressing, urging one.

 

Yara sighed at the thought and the sneaking sensation in her skin. She was still slightly sluggish from sleep, and shuffled around in bed, shoving away her bothersome sheets to try and finally manage to arise. She had overslept, she knew as much when she saw how bright the entire world seemed to be outside of her damp, dark cabin. The small, glassless window was her only source of light but on this very morrow it appeared nearly too much for her bleary eyes to bear.

 

She had perhaps drunk too much of the delightful wine her guests had generously provided them for the journey. The sweet, deceiving beverage had been stronger than the bitter ale she was used to, and the budding needs she had been experiencing had made her crave more to try and get rid of the intrusive thoughts she had been having.

 

Getting dressed turned out to be quite a dreadful affair, for the swaying sea did not care for her current state of disarray. She felt as if she were swaying too, as if any single one of her movement might make the entire ship swing around on itself. She sat down at the end of her bed to put on her leather boots, feeling the slight urge to retch creep up her chest. She swallowed the invasive feeling down as hard as she could and got up to try and find something to eat that might satiate and assuage the hungry beast that had been clawing and pulling at her stomach. By doing so, she hoped to settle the churning of her guts and her dizzied head, for she had a great many things to do today, as she usually did.

 

She greeted every single crewman she came across on her way to the kitchens with a grunt, not bothering to even look remotely enthused at the prospect of being awake or about the fact that she was in their company. These were her men, she had not need for politeness or proper etiquette with them. This was a relief to her.

 

Unlike a certain brown-haired beauty, Yara desperately thought to herself, rubbing a clammy palm against her brows with a guttural groan. She found the small kitchen nearly empty, save for a cook and a couple of crewmen who were cleaning up after him as he gutted the five dozens of fish they seemed to have caught.

 

The strong iodized scent would have made most men sick to their stomachs, but it seemed to appease Yara’s nausea. The familiarity of it rendering it almost sweet. She grabbed a toughened piece of bread onto which she spread some salted butter, snatched up a couple of the sweet oranges from Dorne she had been gifted and left the kitchen to meet with the rest of her crewmen, most of which were probably on deck, already busying themselves with the tedious tasks required by the fact of maintaining a ship afloat.

 

It was a bright, breezy day. Ideal, she told herself as she put one of her hands to her brows to try and look at the horizon, a habit one usually obtained after years at sea. She had already finished eating the bread when one of her men nearly ran up to her.

 

“Captain!” the sailor hastily greeted her, his tone more inquisitive than salutatory.

“Aye?” she simply answered, biting into the juicy flesh of the sugary fruit and then spitting out a seed onto the wooden planks of the deck. The sailor looked anxiously at her and she sighed as she spit out yet another seed and continued to chew ungracefully, wiping the fresh juice off her chin with a swipe of her sleeve as she spoke again. “What is it, boy?”

“Captain ’ve seen some movements eastward, some fishin’ ships that are gettin’ closer than they ought to, we reckon.”

“Who’s ‘we’, boy?”

“Well the quartermaster told me, m’lady Captain.”

 

She could not help but smile at the terrible use of her titles he’d just made.

 

“Keep an eye on those ships, will ya. Tell Dagmar to come meet me immediately.”

“Yes m’lady.”

 

She took a deep breath, letting the salt of the sea reach her lungs and exhaled a few seconds later. The wind had fallen through the night, this much was clear. They had sailed at quite a rapid pace down the coast of Westeros and past the isle of Lys, where they had spotted a few whales and a large group of dolphins. Yara had pointed them out to Prince Quentyn and Princess Arianne who had both rejoiced at the foreign sight. There were pleasures to be had at sea, she had told them, that were impossible to get while on land.

 

She was leaning against the wooden railing, eating piece after piece of orange slice when she saw a large shadow form in the water. Another whale, she told herself as she spit out another seed.

 

Dagmar came to her side after a few minutes, greeting her with a sharp slap against her her back and a rumbling laugh.

 

“How ‘re you feelin’ this mornin’? A bit dizzy, are we?” her second in command teased her.

“I’m fine, Dagmar,” she answered, avoiding his gaze by choosing to look at the blue expanse of the Summer Sea. “Any news?” she told him, hoping to change the subject.

 

He had seen her get drunk last night, she remembered that much. She remembered seeing him laugh heartily at her when she had stumbled her way to her cabin.

 

“We’re still on track, though I wish we could avoid gettin’ so close to Old Valyria, I didn’t appreciate it the las’ time we came to Meereen.”

“A sordid sight, isn’t it?”

“I’ve seen worse, but yes.”

“Worse than Old Valyria?”

“Aye, I get to look at myself in a lookin’ glass from time to time.”

 

She let out a short, harsh laugh that made her stomach feel like a raging storm was wrecking through it.

 

“Did Mornoc tell ya about the fishin’ boat?”

“He did. How far away are they? You seem worried about them, so I wager that they must be pretty close or you would not even bother telling me about it. But I can’t even see them now. Should I be worried, Dagmar?”

 

He sighed, scratched thoughtfully at his black beard for a few moments and then opened his mouth to start talking.

 

“Well, there’s only one boat from what I can tell. But the sailors are strange. They’ve been doin’ this slight dance with us for the past couple o’ days. They get closer to us at night and then somehow seem to fade away when daylight breaks. I didn’ think much of it the first night, ‘cause they might have changed route, you know? But twice in a row? That’s suspicious alright. That’s why I’m worried. I think we’re bein’ followed. They might even try to attack tonight or the night after that, can’t be sure. But that’s not a simple fishin’ boat, I can tell ya that much.”

“We’ll send sentries tonight. I want a full crew on deck. We’ll get some sleep when we know we’re safe. Gather the men, I’ll speak to them.”

 

 

And so she did, spending the rest of her morning keeping herself busy with instructions and preparations. Everyone had to be ready in case they were to be attacked. She riled up her men with the possible threat of being attacked by the traitorous King of Westeros. She delighted at the pure hatred she could see clearly on her men’s faces at the thought of Bran the Broken. These were proud men, these were her proud men. They would fight for her. They would die for her. And she for them.

 

They were fighting for their freedom, for vengeance, for her. They were ready to do whatever she required of them. They were like her, in a way, grieving and angry. She let them be so, it was better that way. It made them better warriors.

 

When night came, Yara had barely had time to meet with her Dornish guests. She was too preoccupied with the thrill of the threat that might come for them. Her entire fleet was ready. The Dornish boats that were scattered in the midst of her own ships had been lent a few Ironborn, for they were not used to fighting at sea and would probably require some assistance should they be targeted. The Prince and Princess of Dorne had elected to join back with their own soldiers, and Yara was left waiting on her own boat to see whether or not their potential opponents would strike.

 

Waiting was the worst part of it all, Yara thought to herself as she tried to look out the dark horizon, the waning moon’s light barely bright enough for her to see anything past the orange glow of the torches on board.

 

They were to be extinguished very shortly, as soon as the sentries were half a league away from the furthest ship. They would await in darkness for them to send a signal. It was time, she told herself.

 

“Are the sentries ready?” she called out to her crew.

“Aye captain!” a few voices answered her.

“Send them out! Quickly!”

“Aye captain!” the crew echoed once more.

“Are you all ready to slaughter anyone that would dare try to harm us?” she yelled out furiously.

“Aye captain!” they repeated with more vigour.

“Good! Get in position, now! What is dead may never die!”

“What is dead may never die!” her men shouted back at her, slapping themselves on the chest enthusiastically as they rose one fist in the air and grunted loudly.

 

She was then surrounded by the hurried pace of cluttering boots against wooden planks as the small crowd dispersed itself.

 

She waited again for the sentries to be far enough. When she received the hand signal from the look-out she ordered her men to extinguish the torches. Darkness surrounded them all, now.

 

It was a peculiar feeling, she thought to herself as she watched the moon glowing white on the ripples of water, to be always so ready to fight. She always had had to be ready, never knowing the feeling of peace or safety. She never wanted to feel so contentedly safe, either. Safety made you soft, made you weak, made you vulnerable.

 

She was none of those things.

 

She waited in silence, gazing over the horizon, trying to find the fishing boat that had been troubling her mind all day. Dagmar came back to her. She heard his footsteps before she could see him, turning around to look at his face. He grunted at her, tapping her lightly on the shoulder amicably.

 

“We’ve located the boat,” he announced.

“And?”

“The sentries say they’re definitely not fishermen. It’s soldiers. Not Westerosi, though.”

“That’s odd,” she muttered, mostly for her own sake. She paused, hesitated and sighed as she tapped her fingers against the wooden railing in a strum that was almost devoid of rhythm. “Prepare the men, we’re attacking first,” she ordered Dagmar.

“Yes, captain,” he answered with a curt nod.

 

She waited again, they were turning the ships around towards the position of the threat. She grabbed the handle of her sword, feeling the need to draw it out of its sheath tingle through her fingers.

She could see the ship clearly, now. They were rather small in stature, made of simple planks that made the boats look on the verge of sinking. It wouldn’t take much for her and her men to do so, she thought. Perhaps they would drown their enemies in the Summer Sea, perhaps they would attract sharks with the pools of blood they would spill into the water. Perhaps they would feed them to the sharks, make the others watch as she ordered them to tell her who they were, what they wanted from them and who they were working for.

 

They were getting closer and closer, and she looked at her men, whistling at them in order to make sure they were all looking at her and then putting a finger to her lips to let them know they needed to keep quiet. She wanted this to be a surprise attack, she did not want the enemy to know they were coming before it was too late for them to prepare or retreat. She drew out her sword, raising it in the air to show them they needed to do the same.

 

The metallic sounds of their own swords against their sheaths clanked through the air and they all gathered in silence to await her next order.

 

They were less than half a league away now, and she could hear the foreign-sounding voices of the soldiers aboard the fishing boat. The sound was foreign, for sure, for it was a far cry from sounding anything like the Common Tongue, but yet, it felt familiar. She had heard such sounds before.

 

They were shouting orders, that much was clear. They had spotted them. It was too late for them anyway, she knew it and they must have known it too. They were getting ready to fight, not trying to avoid them. Closer now. They were nearly crashing onto the small boat. It was surrounded with half a dozen ships of her own fleet.

 

She could somewhat make up what they looked like, in the warm light of the burning torches they had set up around the ship. It was not just their tongue, the soldiers themselves were familiar, she thought, her brows knitting in concern. Some of them wore black leather garments over their dark brown skins and their black helmets and spears were all too familiar. And yet, they were mingled with other soldiers who seemed to have a wildly different approach regarding the unity of armoury. They were dressed in different types of leathers, wore their hair and beards in dissimilar fashions.

 

They made for a strange group of fellows, Yara mused as she jumped from her boat and onto theirs with a fierce shout. Behind her, she could hear the crash of wood against wood as the bow of her ship pierced through the side of the enemy ship.

 

She was about to strike the first blow against a bearded stranger when her eye caught that of another bearded man. This one she knew, though. Although she had not known him for long.

 

“Daario Naharis?” she called out to him.

 

He walked over to her, bumping past his own soldiers. Everyone was standing very still, besides him. He sheathed his curved sword into a leather belt tied at his waist and then stopped two feet away from her.

“Well, that’s quite the surprise, Lady Greyjoy.”

“STAND DOWN!” she yelled at her men. Turning back to the very confused man in front of her, she put her own sword back into its leather sheath. “I’m sorry about your boat,” she smirked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! 
> 
> I was very happy to work on it, I had some fun with it literary-wise. (I'm very sorry about the awful amount of alliterations and assonances you can find in the Yara part of it, don't even try to read some of it aloud, it's super hard haha)  
> BUT, all things considered, I'm even more excited about what's gonna happen in the next chapter, so stay tuned for that! 
> 
> You're all awesome thank you so much for your kudos, comments, and readership :D


	13. The Flight of Old Valyria

**Chapter 13 : The Flight of Old Valyria**

  

It was a dark, gloomy day where heavy grey clouds swam around the sky in swift sweeps of quick blowing air. Not too far away on the horizon stood tall grey shadows which rose into the misty fog of the morning sky. It made Yara incredibly happy to see such a sight on such a peculiar journey. They were a few leagues away from the ruins of Old Valyria, and its tall broken stone buildings were casting a heavy silhouette onto the swaying sea.

 

She had had a great many conversations with the Queen’s new hand over the days they had spent together at sea. He told her of the horror and the pain of grief he had felt upon hearing of his Queen’s death, and the impossible surge of hope when he had reached Volantis and found the Red Priestess. And the sheer miracle of seeing her get up from a burning pyre, breathing and very much alive.

 

It made Yara’s mind reel. It seemed incredible, impossible, inconceivable. And yet, the Queen had written to her. The Queen had sent Daario to see whose boats were traveling from Westeros to Essos. It was one thing to believe the man’s words, it was another to imagine it unfold before her eyes. Soon enough, she would see Queen Daenerys once more. And if she had died and been reborn, then perhaps… Perhaps, her willful brain wished, perhaps so could her brother. No, she scorned herself. No, he had been long gone. There was no hope for him.

 

But perhaps the priestess could do something, perhaps Yara at least ought to ask.

 

“Queen Yara?” a small voice rang from behind the door of Yara’s cabin.

“Yes?” she answered, getting up from the uncomfortable armchair she had been sitting on for an hour, getting lost in thoughts and starring at the flickering lights of her burning candles.

 

She got to the door, opened it hastily and smiled at the woman that lay in the shadows of the dark corridor.

 

“Princess Arianne, what a delightful sight at this hour of the day.”

“Mayhap I ought to come back come the morrow, I know well of the impropriety of such a visit, Queen Yara, but I --”

“Come in,” Yara interrupted her, grabbing the princess by the orange sleeve of her long, loose shift.

“I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”

“You have not. Though I would wish to know why you have come to see me.”

“Well, you see, I… I have heard quite the tales about Old Valyria and I… I was trying to sleep, you see… But I thought that if I did so I might wake up with a Stone Man in my bed. And then I just… I just thought that perhaps you would be able to help me. Because I know that you have gone through the ruins before. Because you have told your men as much when they questioned you. So I thought… Well, you know...”

“I do. There is nothing to fear, I assure you. I know it seems dangerous, but it is also the safest route to Meereen if you do not wish to get caught. And as much as that seems like a fun adventure, I do not want the Stark king to know of our whereabouts. We’ve talked about this at length for the past few days.”

The princess sighed and rubbed her tanned, slender fingers against her worried brow. “Have you ever seen a Stone Man before?” she asked Yara.

“I think we saw them from afar the last time we crossed the region, aye. Our boats are too fast and our men too strong. Nothing happened the last time, and nothing will happen this time.”

 

Princess Arianne stayed silent for a second, her teeth gnawing gently at her bottom lip. Yara’s eyes desperately tried to look away, to no avail. She swallowed thickly. The princess sighed and Yara saw one of the corners of her mouth lift up slightly.

 

“You’re right, I should not worry so. Thank you,” she almost whispered, her voice so low Yara had to focus to listen to her. She grabbed Arianne’s hand firmly in answer, a smile creeping on her face.

“It’s alright, you don’t need to --” Yara’s voice got caught in her throat as the princess’ lips trapped her own in a delicate, swift kiss.

“Thank you,” she repeated her warm, honeyed breath tickling Yara’s chin before she stepped back. “I must go and rest, now. Good night, Queen Yara. Thank you for assuaging my fears.”

 

Yara was stuck there, breathless and wordless. She heard the sound of the door clanking shut and realized the Dornish woman had left. By the time Yara managed to walk all the way to the door and open it again to get Arianne to come back so that she could kiss her properly, the hallway was empty and dark. And so, Yara closed the door behind her with a sigh. It felt as if she had dreamt it all, as if

 

She spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out if what had happened had really happened. Dawn was breaking when she concluded that it must have for one of her dreams would not have ended so swiftly, and in her dream Yara would have definitely bedded the princess. She was certain of this. Because she had already had such dreams before.

 

It was lonely, at sea, and the thoughts of the princess laying next to her were as close to comfort and warmth as she had always thought she could expect.

 

And yet.

 

Yara got up, tired and restless. Ready to face another day. She was to rouse the men, prepare them for the worst. The Stone Men were far more difficult to deal with than she had let on to Arianne. They had nearly been attacked, the last time they had travelled through the decrepit ruins of the once formidable ancient civilization. There were not that many things that could make a woman like Yara fear for her life, she had seen far too many dangerous things before, but the Stone Men were one of them.

 

Her men would have to be really careful, she knew it.

 

The first day through the ruins of Old Valyria went fairly nicely. She had ordered for every soldier aboard the ship to be on deck, so that everyone could look out for potential assailants. They spotted three Stone Men atop a tall, moss covered ruin and quickly diverged the fleet, sending signals to every ship so as to avert them.

 

On the second day, though, something incredible and utterly unplanned happened.

 

They were nearing a shallower bank, and had had to go through a small passage in the ruins which diverted their journey, and Yara had been speaking with her navigator about how best to get back on track when she felt a sudden chill run up her spine. She looked up to the sky, sensing something looming over them all. And then, it happened. A huge, dark shadow swiftly descended from behind the low grey clouds, a rumbling growl resonating in the hollow of Yara’s heaving chest.

 

A slew of voices rang all around her in panic. She did not look away from the threatening sight overhead, her head bent all the way back to the point it nearly hurt.

 

“The hell’s that?” Dagmar’s rough voice yelled out.

“Dragons!” someone shouted in the distance, probably from one of the ships closest to hers.

“Fuckin’ hell! He’s huge!” another voice pointed out.

 

He was indeed, very much the largest thing Yara had ever laid eyes upon. She had last seen him when she had last left Dragonstone with Ellaria Sand. He had nearly doubled in size since then, it seemed to her. His large black wings swung slowly overtop their ships, casting such a large shadow the world seemed to vanish into darkness. The large beast did not move, he simply flapped his wings in silence. He was surveying the perimeter, it seemed to her, he was trying to gauge if he ought to burn them all to a crisp or not. Yara hopped he could recognize them all as friends, not foes.

 

Daario ran towards Yara, nearly crashing into her. She hopped he knew what to do about the situation.

 

“So that’s where he’s been hiding all this time, huh? Your mom’s been worrying about you, boy!” the captain scolded loudly, as if the dragon could understand a word he was saying.

 

Yara looked away from the menacing monster to stare at her Queen’s hand in confusion. He ignored her, continued to look at the dragon, which huffed and sighed and flapped his wings once more. He hovered down, the tip of his wings nearly hitting the top of the ship’s mast. It was hard to see much of anything, for his darkness replaced the grey clouds in the sky. He was so large Yara could not see anything but him. All she saw were black and red scales. She felt the heat emanating from his leathery skin, its warmth akin to that of the sun on a hot summer day.

 

Somewhere past Daario, Yara saw a flash of bright orange from the corner of her eye. She turned her head away from the beast to see as Prince Quentyn and Princess Arianne emerged from the depths of the ship. They looked around, terrified and then raised their heads to the dark mass above them. Yara saw them fall to the ground at the sight as they grabbed onto each other, a sharp cry escaping their mouths. Most of her own crewmen were laying on the ground, shaking with fear. Some of them were jumping into the sea. She did not blame them. Her own knees were shaking, she did not know why or how she was still standing. She ought to flee, she thought. She ought to cower and run. She could not move.

 

“Drogon!” Daario yelled out, making Yara’s unfocused eyes snap to him. He was looking much braver than the rest of them. “It’s alright, boy, it’s just us! We’re going back to Meereen, your mother awaits us.”

 

Yara stared at him, trying to figure out what he was doing. She forced her mouth open, exhaled slowly and put her clenched hand onto a wooden crate that sat next to her.

 

“What are you doing?” she whispered, terrified she might cause the dragon to breathe fire onto them at the slightest move she made.

“Trying to get him not to burn us all,” the Queen’s Hand answered, turning his gaze to hers. He looked just as scared as she felt.

“Does he understand you?” she asked, bewildered by his bold attempt.

“I think he does,” he told her, his voice shaking slightly. His mother talks to him, I’ve seen her do it.”

 

As if to prove a point, the winged creature flapped his wings harder and with a kick of his talons against the air, he rose higher with a screech. It felt like a night suddenly turned into daylight, for the sudden brightness made Yara’s eyes ache and she had to shield them with her hands. It took them a while to adjust back to the white glow of the clouds. But once that was done and as the magnificent beast got high enough for Yara to get a clear view of the sky once more, she saw something else hiding in the clouds.

 

Two smaller creatures were flying high above them all. If Yara had not just seen a dragon from dangerously close, she could have mistaken the two shadows for large birds. They were not, however.

 

“There’s more!” she breathed out in terror. “There’s two more! Look, look!”

 

Drogon rose higher and higher to get to their level, and Yara heard the high-pitched screeches of greeting that the two small dragons

 

**JON**

 

 

The seas were rough, the wind kept blowing them off course and the sailors did not seem to be quite as experienced as they had announced themselves to be. He’d boarded ship a fortnight ago and was planning on setting off on a small watercraft he had bought from the captain the previous night. He was leaving in a few hours, as soon as the wind would settle a little, hopefully before the sun got too low. They were nearing Dragonstone. He could somewhat make out the island from afar in the dim light of the breaking dawn. The seaman in charge of the boat’s navigation told him they were as close as they were ever going to get. They would not get any closer, they did not wish to diverge from their own set journey. They would have, Jon was sure of it, if he had paid them to do so. But he did not have the money. He should have stolen more from Winterfell, he thought. It would have made everything easier.

 

He would have to row for an entire day or so, and would not be able to rest for long. Otherwise, he would risk drifting away, and he did not know where he would end up. He had asked the men working in the kitchen to lend him some smoked fish, dry bread and hard cheese for the journey and the old, scarred man had grumbled and complained about it but he’d done as told anyway.

 

He parted with the crew in silence as they helped the small boat down onto the water and held his hand as he hung onto the flimsy rope ladder they had attached to the railing. It shook with the force of his own weight and every move he took made it twist dangerously. He descended very slowly onto the damp planks of the rundown boat they had sold him for quite a hefty sum.

 

“Take care, King in the North!” the sailor shouted at him as Jon started to row away from their ship. He gaped at the gruff man.

“You knew who I was?” he yelled back, dropping the wooden oars he’d been holding onto.

“Tha’ sword of yours. Keep it hidden, will ya?”

“I will!”

 

The boat had drifted away on its own, and Jon, who did not have anything else to shout back, stayed silent as the old sailor grew smaller and smaller until Jon could no longer see him. He turned around and picked up the oars again, and started rowing.

 

It was a cold, rainy day and his entire journey was spent rowing as hastily as possible to try and get to the island. The rain had started as a mild, sticky mist which soon turned into a heavy downpour. Jon had no choice but to keep rowing and rowing, for fear that his makeshift boat might give out from under him from his own weight and that of the water that kept accumulating as the pouring rain dropped endlessly onto it. His clothes were drenched, his hair and beard were uncomfortably stuck to his face and he kept pushing back traitorous black curly strands away from his eyes. He could not see much and could only hope that he was heading the right way.

 

Once the rain stopped, after a long, cold hour of rain, Jon took a much needed break, his aching arms and shoulders were growing weary and he was shivering too badly to hold onto the wooden handles of the paddles.

 

He slumped onto the soaked plank underneath him, put his feet up onto the other plank that was surely meant to be a seat for another passenger and looked at the sky.

 

It was strange to be alone. He did not want to be alone. He did not want to have to be alone with his own thoughts. They were dangerous and terrifying. But he did not have much a choice, as of this moment. His thoughts kept wandering to the woman he was seeking out. Was she there? Was she expecting him? He could not see any ships, nor could he hear or see Drogon.

 

If not here, then where was she? The thought was his main preoccupation at the moment. He did not want it to be. He could not bear the thought of her being unsafe somewhere. He stood back up, his break was over. He ate some of the hard cheese the cook had given him as he stared at the nearing castle. Three more hours, he thought, evaluating the distance. Three more hours of mindless rowing.

 

He was not so far off, in the end. He landed at sunset, the shrouded sun’s golden glow making the dark stones of the beach shine bright like large coins or lost treasures washed ashore. It was a pleasant sight. He was alone. He knew as much. This was his fifth time landing on this very beach. It was the only time no one had been there to greet him. There were some birds pecking at each other a couple hundred yards away from him as he struggled to drag the heavy small boat onto the rocky sand. He did not want to be stranded here. Even if he knew it would be difficult to reach the mainland on his own with his tiny rundown boat and in these terrible conditions.

 

The long, lonely walk along the winding path that led to the castle’s entrance left him plenty of time to imagine that Daenerys was there waiting for him on her throne as she had once done many moons ago. He had loved her right there and then, he had known it. She had made him breathe properly for the first time since he had been brought back. She had that sort of magic in her. She was magic incarnate. Melisandre might have been the one to bring him back from the dead, but it was Daenerys that brought him back to life.

 

When he entered into the silent confines of the unlit castle, he knew all hope of her being there were lost. He wandered into the opened doors of the throne room and to the left down the corridor that led to the war room. There was no one. He went up to her chambers in a last desperate attempt at finding her. It was devoid of human life. The room was empty, there was no trace of her. The castle was empty, he conceded, yielding to the burdening truth. There was no one in sight. Not a servant left behind, not a peasant left to mind the small patches of land that they had managed to farm on. Not a single Unsullied or Dothraki, the women and children that lived on the island as their husbands, sons and brothers were gone to fight the dead. Jon wondered what had happened to them.

 

He was alone. Truly alone. No guards to bother him, no one to visit him. He was alone. Would he wait for her there? Should he? Should he try to find where she was?

 

Essos, he thought to himself, she was probably in Essos. But she was coming here, he was sure of it. He would wait here, he decided. He would wait for her to come back. No matter how long it took.

 

 


	14. The Shine of Steel

**Chapter 14 : The Shine of Steel**

 

She had not waited idly, had not spent her days gazing blindly at the city below her chambers. No, she had kept herself as busy as she could have.

 

She had started her fighting lessons with Grey Worm, for starters. He made for a very different teacher than Daario. Whilst less likely to let her win for the sake of it, he was also much less inclined to get frustrated with her, as she knew Daario could get. Grey Worm’s calm patience was a nice change of pace, although he was harsher in his critiques of her techniques. But she thought him right, in the end. Daario was not fond of the technical side of fighting. For him, it was a matter of passion, of boiling blood and beating hearts desperate to win and survive another fight. Grey Worm was the complete opposite.

 

So, they started over from the beginning, although she quite enjoyed Daario’s approach.

 

The blacksmith had been working on her crown and armour for weeks, now, and he was nearly finished. He told her it had taken quite a lot of time and effort to smelt the Valyrian steel armour he already owned and reforge it to fit her and to look exactly right. He also told her at length about how he had acquired it in the first place. Maester Tegho was quite a wordy and worldly man, as it turned out. He liked telling her stories and she liked to listen to them in quasi-complete silence. Sometimes, she asked him to elaborate or to expand on his knowledge. He had lived quite a long, full life, and Daenerys wanted to learn more about it. He too had grown up impoverished, she learnt.

 

He told her about his childhood in the streets of Qohor, about how he used to go by the butcher’s shop and steal the scraps that the old man was throwing to the dogs. He showed her one of his scars on his arms where one starving hound had bit him. Even now, it looked gnarly and painful.

 

“It’s not painful now, I swear to you,” he assured her, one of the corners of his mouth raising in a tentative smile.

“It looks painful.”

“Ah but looking and being are very different things,” he chuckled.

 

Wise with age. That’s how she would have described him. Like a grandfather or an uncle ought to be, she thought to herself as she watched him drink from his cup. The things she had despaired to have. A family. Someone to learn from. Viserys had taught her all he knew, she had to give him that at least, but his young age had meant he couldn’t have known too much.

 

So, this foreign stranger was as good a source as any. He knew things about Old Valyria, things about her ancestors, about the Targaryens. She asked him about the Valyrian steel, about how he had learnt to reforge it, about where he had gotten hold of it. Was there more? She was greedy, impatient, she yearned and leaned forward, waiting for his answer with bated breath.

 

They were in one of the rooms she had recently had redecorated, as she needed a place to have an afternoon small meal and drink with her companions and guests. He had dressed with neat, clean clothes and finely jewelled shoes which shone bright with a variety of colours when they were hit by the setting sun’s glint as he shifted in his seat.

 

“Go on,” she pleaded, drawing nearer.

“Well,” he sighed lightly and frowned. “I don’t even know where to begin with.”

“You could begin with how you became the greatest blacksmith in Essos. Possibly the world.”

 

That made him blush, she saw his swarthy, leathered cheeks brighten with a childish tinge of pink that made him look much younger than he was.

 

“Well, one day, as I was trying to sneak my way into a baker’s shop to try and steal a couple of those little bun pastries my sister liked so much, I got caught by soldiers. They dragged me through the crowd, and I was still a mere boy, lanky and too weak to fight back, so I screamed and screamed for them to let me go. I knew that if I didn’t, I’d end up being sold as a slave, because that was what happened to orphaned children who were caught by soldiers. I didn’t want to be caught, I knew my sister was too young to survive on her own. I screamed at the men to let me go. But the soldiers didn’t care, and they kept on dragging me, I was kicking and thrashing around like a wild beast, and then, coming out of nowhere, a woman rushed after us and yelled at them to stop. “Stop, stop!” she screamed, she looked old to me then, but was much younger than I am now.

“That’s my boy, that’s my boy!” she continued to scream. I thought she had made a mistake, I really did. But I let her say it, because the men stopped and let got of my arms. “What has he done again?” she asked them, as if she had been through this before. But I had never met her in my life. “Caught him tryin’ to steal some bread from a bakery,” one of the men answered. And then the woman got all sorts of mad and yelled at me for misbehaving, I really thought I was dreaming, and she caught me by the arm and tugged me to her side. She asked them how much money they needed to make my debt go away. She paid them and dragged me away from them.

I waited for them to be out of sight, and told her that I was not her son, that she had made a mistake. And that’s when she explained to me that she had not, that she’d seen this happen too many times before and that I better try to take better care of myself if I didn’t want to end up being sold on the market. I thanked her, told her I would do anything to thank her. And she told me her husband was looking for someone to clean up his furnace. He was a blacksmith, a very good one. Richer than half the nobles in the city. I cleaned for him, at first, began with his furnace, then his tools and the floor, and one day he caught me staring at what he was doing for too long and tried to show me how to do it too. He paid good money, I fed my sister and I decently. One thing led to another, I became his apprentice. Much like my own Joghan now. I wasn’t a slave. But I could have been. That’s why I’m here now, serving you. You have changed the world, Queen Daenerys. Hopefully one day, no little boy or girl will have to fear being sold. Or not having food and shelter.”

 

Daenerys kept quiet for a while, she had looked away from him for a long time as she tried to concentrate on what he was saying. She, too, had known what it was like to have to steal to survive.

 

“I have changed some things, it is true. Some for the better, and some for the worse. I cannot deny any of it.”

“There are few people who can say as much, your Grace. And solely for the fact that very few people ever get to say that they have changed the world, let alone for the better. You may have caused harm, though I have barely heard whispers and gossips of such tales, and that by people who have much to gain by maintaining slavery alive. So I do not pay mind to those rumours.”

“You should,” she told him, feeling ill-at-ease under his usually calming gaze. “I have done monstrous things.”

“I can’t believe it, truly, I can’t.”

“But I-” she began, her voice trembling. ‘I did!’ she wanted to tell him, ‘I murdered half a city!’ She wanted to yell, to shake him out of his delusions about her. But something stopped her from doing so, bitter tears came to her eyes and she dropped her gaze to the floor.

 

She could bare it no more, she rose from her seat and excused herself out of the room as fast as she could, pretexting a headache.

“I’m really sorry,” she told him.”

The old man called out behind her: “It’s alright, my Queen. Do not worry, go rest. I will warn you when the work is finished,” she heard him say.

 

Three days later, his promise came true. Her armour was finished. Rana, a young servant came to her after supper to inform her.

 

“Good, thank you for telling me. Please inform Maester Tegho that I will go and admire his craftsmanship in the morrow.”

“Yes my Queen. Have a good evening.”

“You too, Rana.”

 

She went to see him as soon as she had finished her breakfast, in the little disorderly forge they had set up for him and his apprentice, right by the one used by the Second Sons’ own blacksmith.

 

The first thing that came to Daenerys’ mind was that it was hot and dirty with the burning coals’ smoke and soot. Then, she set her eyes on the piles upon piles of tools and swords and shining silvery pieces of armor that were strewn across the small, open room. She took a step forward, and with a curt hand signal, she told the guards that were following her to stop at the entrance behind her. She did not turn back to see if they had understood her or listened to her. She knew they had.

 

The smithy was empty and the Maester and his apprentice were nowhere to be found as far as Daenerys could see. She could not blame him. It was early. She had awoken earlier than usual, though she did not know whether to blame her anxiety regarding the lack of news from Daario and his crew or her excitation at the thought of having her own Valyrian Steel armour, like her own ancestors had all had. It was a blissful thought. A longing fulfilled. She would, somehow, belong more to her own family thanks to this.

 

She waited alone, breathing in the hot, grimy air and foraging through the piles of swords and halfway finished projects Maester Tegho must have been working on.

 

On a large wooden table at the far end of the workshop, she found the scrolls onto which he created his forged wonders, and she grazed her index fingers over the rough parchment as she stared in wonder at his work.

 

“Ah, my apologies Queen Daenerys,” a voice rang behind her, startling her and making her turn around. “I did not expect you here so soon. I hope you did not wait for too long,” the Maester continued as she composed herself and took a step in his direction.

“Not at all, Maester Tegho, I was just admiring your drawings. You’re quite a good artist as well,” she told him with a smile. “I heard you finished the armour, so I came to see it myself.”

“You needn’t have bothered coming all this way, I would have brought it to the Pyramid.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now,” she joked.

“Indeed it is, I’ll have Joghan fetch it for you. Joghan!” he cried out. “Come here boy, bring me the Queen’s armour!”

 

The boy scurried away into a dark corridor at the far end of the room, where Daenerys had not entered when she had occupied herself by examining everything she could see. Soon enough, she heard the rustle of metal clanging against itself and when the Maester’s apprentice came back in, his arms were struggling to hold up the wooden mannequin which was adorned with what was to be her own armour.

 

It was a thing of beauty, she thought as she cocked her head to the side to admire it. Joghan brought it closer to her and gently put it down onto the table. The armour was far more detailed and carefully crafted than Daenerys could have ever dreamed of. The breastplate was ornately decorated with her house’s emblem and dark jewels encrusted into the silver steel which shone yellow in the dim light of the rising sun and the candlelight of the Maester’s torches.

 

She came closer to it, extending her hand to let her fingertips graze against the cool metal, and felt the ridges of the embossed sigil. She could feel the small dragon scales he had etched into the steel, the pointy edges of the minute teeth and horns which embellished the three heads. Instead of eyes, the dragons had dark red jewels, which looked eerily real.

 

“The eyes,” she spoke up for the first time since the armor had been brought to her. “What are they made of?”

“Ah, yes,” he said with delight. Daenerys looked up to see him smile broadly. “I heard about your late brother Rhaegar’s ruby armour. I thought it would be fitting to have rubies on yours as well, as a form of family tradition.”

 

Her mind wandered off at the thought of Rhaegar. Rhaegar… She nearly sighed. Her brother had always been such a pleasant thought. Such a beacon of light for her, all her life, after having heard stories of the dreadful Aerys and having had to live through years of living with Viserys. But Rhaegar was not a pleasant thought, not any longer. She could not help but feel her mouth fill up with bitter acid at the thought of his name. The bliss of his name was long gone, now.

 

“Thank you, Maester,” she told the man with as large a smile as she could muster.

 

As if he knew that she was not as enthused after hearing such news, the old man changed the subject immediately.

 

“And, you see,” he added quickly. “I took the time to etch a map of Essos and Westeros, and there,” he continued as he pointed his finger below the sigil, where other smaller jewels glimmered. “I marked the cities you liberated with stones from the Pyramid’s vault. So that you can always see the good you have done in this world.”

 

She felt her breath leave her lungs in a harsh huff. She struggled for a second to inhale, before realizing that she felt the strange need to run out of the room, so overcome was she with emotion.

 

She could not say anything as she stared at him, and simply nodded and smiled as tears welled up inside her eyes.

 

“I might not have been a slave myself,” the Maester told her, his voice low and with an almost secretive quality to it. “But I have known a great too many people who were, some who did not survive it, and some who did with terror in their eyes. You’ve stopped that as best you could, inspired revolts in cities you’ve never even heard of. Don’t forget it. You can’t. Without you, all the freed people, men, women, children… They’re all hopeless, lost, gone. You are hope, Queen Daenerys. You can’t forget that, or else the rest of the world might too.”

 

Hope. It was a fickle, reckless thing, she knew it all too well.

 

“I am not their hope,” she told him, adamant. “They are their own hope, they are their own liberators. I only make it easier for them.”

“Don’t you think that _this_ is precisely what hope is? That somehow someone might come along and make your salvation easier? They would have never found that hope without you.”

 

She pondered for a moment, lowered her burning gaze onto the embellished breastplate and lost herself in deep thoughts.

 

“Perhaps,” she answered after she felt satisfied with her conclusion. “You may well be right, Maester. But hope is dangerous. I know it first hand.”

“Well, then, who else better than you to wield its powers? Who would you think is best suited to deal with something as powerful as this than the one person who has suffered the most from it? Hope has never let me down, you see, and as such I would not know of its lethal qualities. I could not save any stranger from its dangers, for they have never affected me before. You, on the other hand, know all too well the possibilities and doom it can bring along. You can save people from it.”

“You speak of me as if I were not human.”

“In some ways, you are more so. You have become more than what a normal person will ever be. You are a myth, a tale, a thing of legends foretold and retold a thousand times. You will be eternal. Your name has already etched itself in History, Queen Daenerys.”

“Not if they try to erase me from it,” she sighed to herself, knowing fully well that the Maester had no knowledge when it came to what had happened in Westeros.

“Who could ever try?” he asked her.

“The new Westerosi King, and his Grand Maester,” she answered simply, trying to avoid delving too deep into the sore subject.

“Ah, Westeros. Not quite as grand as it used to be, is it? Long gone are the days of prosperity in the Kingdom. They fight and squabble between themselves for a kingdom that’s about to die. That’s what the oracles say, in Qohor. That they thought the worst had happened but that it has not. That the winter is gone, but the earth shall burn and that no crops will grow. I know this by heart, my workshop is surrounded by oracles clamoring its doom in the streets, scaring the children with their tales. A sordid business it is, being a sworn oracle of the Act of Layr.”

“The Act of Layr?” Daenerys dared to ask, although the blacksmith’s words seemed ominous enough on their own.

“A religion, a sect, the name does not matter much. They pride themselves on their ability to foresee what will happen in the future.”

 

She blinked, lost her gaze against the cool, magnificent metal for a while before Maester Tegho moved away from the table, which shook her out of her reverie.

 

“I do have something else to show you, now that you’re here.”

“Oh, really?” she asked him. “Have you been drawing again?”

“No, but I think you will like it all the same.”

 

He left her standing there for a short while as he walked away from her to go to the desk that sat a few feet away. With his back turned away from her, she could not see what he was doing, or looking for, for that matter, but she could hear him rummaging through things, and then she heard the scrapping of wood as he opened up a drawer. That’s when he exclaimed a short ‘aha!’ and turned back to face her, brandishing a small, open wooden bow which contained a shining silver, ringed object in the air.

 

Daenerys felt her entire body freeze in realization. She knew what the silver metal was. She had asked him to do this too. She had to be quite honest with herself. She’d avoided thinking about it, rather focussing on the armour. She had not seen the dagger in a long time. But a dagger it was no more. It was elegant, with smooth swirls of silver that seemed to interweave as they rose from the circular base to raise a large, red jewel into the air. To the side of it, some smaller jewels were raised in the same fashion, though their pale colour made them seem less important than the one at the centre. There were seven jewels in total, Daenerys counted them as she admired the masterpiece in front of her.

 

“You finished it?” she asked, her voice almost too weak for the man to hear. He nodded nonetheless and smiled at her as he came back and handed her the box.

“Thank you, you truly are an amazing craftsman.”

“I am only doing what was asked of me.”

“It’s exquisite,” she replied, shaking her head in disbelief at the sight of the crown. _Her_ crown. The weapon that had killed her. Her death and her duty, all at once. She ran one finger against the pointed edge of the jewels, felt the ridges where the silver strings of metal seemed to interweave into each other. She was about to grab it out of its box when a noise made her startle and stop.

“Your Grace,” a voice rang behind her in High Valyrian, interrupting whatever thought she was having. She turned to face the voice, one of her soldiers was waiting by the doorway.

“Yes?” she asked

“I have been tasked to inform you that your Hand is coming back, and that they have met up with allies along the way.”

“When will they be here?” she asked, elation spreading into every inch of her being.

“Tomorrow, Your Grace. That’s what the messenger said.”

“Good, you may leave now,” she replied before turning back to face the old man. “I think now is the time for me to try on my new armour, is it not?”

 

The blacksmith agreed with her, and he helped her put the light-weighted protective garment as they tried to find the right adjustments Maester Tegho might need to make. It took so long the day seemed to vanish before her very eyes. After a while, she asked the soldiers to go fetch them some food and drinks from the nearby market, and told them that their shift was over and that they could get new soldiers to watch over her.

 

She ate with the Maester and his apprentice in the small smithy, chatted idly with them before they got back to their measurements and them Maester got Joghan to demonstrate his hammering skills as he bent the curve of her breastplate. She watched in awe as the metal glowed red and small sparks flew into the air when the small hammer came to hit it in precise strokes.

 

It was almost night time when they all concluded that the armour was perfect. Daenerys thanked the two men profusely before excusing herself out of the smithy, and got back to her new chambers, the metallic clattering of her soldiers’ armours – as well as her own as they carried it and her crown back for her – following her around like out-of-tune Dothraki bells. The light, airy sound of music was gone from her world, now. She had to face that.

 

The old man had called her hope. She was not. She was death and despair. She was wrath and revenge. She wanted to be, at least. It was easier to think about that than about the possibility of a future that involved thinking about other things. If she survived this revenge plan of hers, she would have to find another purpose, another reason for her rebirth. But she did not know if she was capable of such things, not after all that she had gone through, or all that she had done. It was therefore almost fitting, somehow, that her own men would make her own inadequacy ring true to the rest of the world.

When the sun rose in the cloudy sky, Daenerys got up right alongside it. There was much to do before her Hand and his men came back to her. She had missed him, in truth, though she was too used to solitude to let such fickle feelings get the better of her, by now.

 

She had been that way with him once – naïve, reckless, inexperienced and too young perhaps to understand the ramifications of her feelings and the impact that such emotions might provoke both upon herself and onto her Queenship.

 

So, she let none of that bother her. The day was young and filled with potential. She wondered if perhaps Daario had not somehow met up with Yara, whom she hoped would be coming to meet with her. Or perhaps it was the Prince of Dorne, or better yet, one of the Westerosi kingdoms had broken faith with their new King and was seeking her out to join her cause.

 

She got ready with the help of her handmaids Elazza and Makzir, the latter lacing her corset and brushing her hair as she was braiding the young servant’s hair.

 

“Do you want me to braid yours for you, my Queen?” young Elazza asked excitedly, once Daenerys was finished

 

She had not worn her hair like this in a long time. Not since Kinvara had brought her back, at least. But perhaps it was time, perhaps she needed the braids to feel like herself again.

 

She hesitated, turned her head to the side so that she could glance at the silver mirror and then nodded in silence.

 

The maid smiled broadly and went to work as Daenerys finished her breakfast and discussed preparations with Makzir, who had a more organizational role and was well-versed in the tedious matter that was preparing for new guests’ imminent arrival.

 

Makzir had ordered for rooms to be prepared, although she did not know how many were needed, and so had had almost all the rooms in the pyramid set out for the day. The kitchens were also working very hard since dawn to prepare for a banquet and –

 

“They’re here, Your Grace,” a soldier informed her in Valyrian.

 

Daenerys rose to her feet hastily.

 

“Follow me,” she instructed her handmaids and the guards at her door. “This is going to be a very important day for us all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did it take me way too long to write this? Yes. And for that I'm sorry. But I must admit that some fandom drama made me lose all interest in writing this for a while and I hope that that's all over now because I really do love writing this fic. Anyway, we've reached the halfway point narratively speaking and the next chapter is basically the part 2 of the story, wherein revenge is actually gonna get down, so there's lots of action to look forward to.
> 
> I hope you're all having a fantastic day, cheers! -- Scarmander


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